


abluvium

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Attentive Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Tony Stark, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Fluff, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Rope Bondage, Service Top, Slow Burn, Spanking, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Sub Tony Stark, Sub-Drop, Subspace, Top Steve Rogers, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: As a sub, Tony Stark needs a new dominant to avoid the bureaucracy of state-run conservatorship, stop the government from stealing his weapons, and get the brass off his back.Steve Rogers takes his new role very seriously.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve hadn’t spoken to Stark in months before he got the call to meet him in at his office. Last time he’d seen him – some gala, he can’t remember for what. That’s the only time they see each other, now. Galas.

Still, he figured it was something good from the way Stark signed off the email, _Kind Regards, Anthony S. _rather than, _see u later, u know who I am. _Natasha had read the message over his shoulder and laughed. “He wants something from you,” is all she had said.

Stark greets him personally in the lobby. “Captain,” he says, after they – hug, awkwardly. “You look well. Life been treating you well? You look good.”

“I’m good,” Steve had replied, politely. “Good to be back in town.”

Stark nods, attentively – _extra _attentively. “Good, good. Good.” He presses the button to call the elevator. “I heard that Pierce had you working hard.”

“It’s good to have the work,” Steve agrees, staring at the elevator doors.

“Good,” Stark nods, and then, just for extra measure, because clearly the conversation wasn’t awkward enough, he throws in an extra: “Good.”

So they travel in the elevator in sticky, thick silence.

As they enter his office, Stark asks, “You want a drink?” He holds open the stopper of the tumbler.

Steve waves him away, watching the view out of the window. “I’m fine,” he says, and then, because he can’t stop himself, “your superior mind that?”

Stark downs his glass, raises his brows at Steve. “No,” he says, shortly. And then: “Actually, it’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

And Steve, he thinks he might have known what Stark wanted, even before he said that. Stark gestures that he should sit at the desk, smiling, even though it’s forced. “You want to talk to me about your superior?” Steve asks, levelly. “Is there something I can help with?”

“Yes,” Stark tells him. He folds his hands, tightly, braces his shoulders. His smile is disarmingly charming.

“And how is that?” Steve presses.

“I – “ Stark sighs, leans back, then forward again. He shuffles in his chair, then starts again. “I guess, I’m in the market for a new superior. Or better yet – a new conservatorship.”

“Okay,” Steve says, slowly, pushing into the inevitable. “And that would be?”

“You,” Stark winces, kneading the bridge of his nose. “You’re military, first of all. A Captain. Which means you’ve got all the right accreditation, I’m sure.”

“I passed in 1942.”

“So you passed,” Stark continues, like that doesn’t mean he’s seventy years out of date and completely unrenewed, “and you’re qualified to control me out in the field, too, which is – killing two birds with one stone. The brass will like it,” he explains, “if my officer is military, or ex-military. They think the military system is better, you know? Tighter. Uh – more cohesive, I guess.”

Yeah, they would. Steve has never bought into it, if he’s being honest; some people like the discipline, sure, fine. It can probably be fulfilling, if your subordinate is looking for routine and complete control. There aren’t many surprises with the military system, you know what you’re getting – not like a contract, where there’s bargaining and haggling over timetables and ‘extent of power’ and stupid things, too, like who gets what side of the bed.

“And you,” Stark says, heavily, “you’re… young.” _Inexperienced, _is what Steve thinks he means. _An easy ride. _“You play by the rules,” he adds, evasively, like that’s not a given.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Steve replies, slowly.

“Yeah. I have to.”

Of course. “Why now?” He had figured Potts was his keeper. Maybe Rhodes. Rhodes, who it seemed was the only person who could shut him up with a glance, whose steady presence and logical thinking and calm demeanour appeared the perfect foil to Stark’s – erratic tendencies.

Stark seems annoyed that Steve has asked, as if it’s not a perfectly valid question. “Because,” he says, with finality, and when he realises that won’t be enough: “Because I’ve been state-owned since 2009. The bureaucracy kills me.”

Which could be true. It’s certainly accurate; Steve doubts it’s changed much since his time. Six-month waiting lists for placement, and the awkward, clinical sessions to take off stress in the meantime. The constant surveys and contractual paperwork that gets lost, preferences ignored, almost ritualised abuse from superiors with a power complex. Departments with tight budgets, and superiors allocated more subs than they can handle.

Although, he’s sure someone like Stark would be a special case. The state might be blisteringly inefficient, but he figures Stark would be a priority, even if they claim that money doesn’t go far. Corruption is pretty endemic, always has been – no doubt Stark knows who to talk to, which palms to stuff with cash.

“That’s a long time,” Steve tells him, honestly. “To be a ward of state, I mean. You never…?”

“It’s complicated,” Stark says shortly, drilling his nails against the tabletop. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Steve agrees. “You ever had a real superior before?”

“Sure.”

“And how long?” Steve presses. Christ, it’s like pulling teeth – Stark sure doesn’t give up his history easy.

“Twenty years, give or take a few,” he says casually. “What,” he says, grinning without humor, shark-like, at what must be surprise on Steve’s face. “You didn’t expect it?”

“No one said.”

“Yeah, well I told you already. It’s complicated.”

Steve leans back in his chair. He looks at Stark a little differently, now. Twenty years is… not a small amount of time. That’s more than a contract – that’s damn near a _marriage. _“Where did they go?” Steve asks, not wanting to pry on an old wound but needing to know.

“Dead,” Stark tells him, in a way that’s pretty final. “I’ve belonged to the state ever since.”

“But you didn’t mind the bureaucracy until now?”

Stark exhales through his nostrils, folds his hands on the desktop. He looks down, once, then back at Steve, one eye-brow raised. “It was – pretty cushy,” he admits. “My guy was old. He basically just ran my preferences through a simulator and picked my programme from there – minimal oversight, someone to go too if I needed… well. If I _needed,” _he stresses.

“He dead too?”

Stark snorts. “No,” he says, picking up a file and throwing it down, on Steve’s side of the desk. “He is very much alive. You’ll need to talk to him, when you take over my contract. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to discuss.”

“_If _I take it over. And you still haven’t answered my question,” he tries, shifting his legs apart, slightly, lowering his tone to something deeper, rougher. “Answer my question. Why have you decided to leave state-care?”

Stark looks at him, seemingly without realising he’s staring. And then he frowns. “Uh,” he says, “they’re – moving my contract. To a new department for special cases. Federal. Much more oversight, a hell of a lot more one-on-one… contact.”

“And is that a bad thing?”

Stark presses his lips together. “The guy running it is a bit of an – ape,” he says, mouth twisting. “He’s not got a great rap sheet, at least, not in my opinion, you know?”

“They’d assign you someone new. Who’d take a much closer look at programme, not just pick it based on your preferences but – maybe some actual discipline,” Steve shrugs. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Stark glares. “I really don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

“What makes you think I’d be easy-going?” Steve asks, picking up the file in front of him, absently running his thumb over the pages. “Like you said, I’m military, right? What say I go hard on you, break you in tough-like. You like cold showers, Stark?”

Stark does not back down, not even an inch. “Like fuck,” he scoffs, “I know you, Rogers. I do my research, understand? You haven’t had a sub since you got off ice – a guy like you doesn’t even need to be assigned, you could just go to a bar and they’d be throwing themselves at you like moths to a bulb.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if you were tough, and you wanted the effort of someone like me, you’d have me,” Stark tells him, bluntly. “But you don’t. Because, you don’t want to put in the effort of a contract like that.”

“So you think, because I’m young, and a nice guy, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Because I’m older, and not nice, and like minimal supervision,” Stark agrees. “In the meantime, you get a solid contract under your belt – that always looks good, right? And the added benefit of – well, it’s me. You get to own me. Isn’t that just a prize in itself?”

Steve wants to laugh in his face, but he doesn’t, because it would be rude, and because he’s maybe, partially, considering the offer. He thinks Stark looks ill. That maybe he’s lost weight, even though he’s not sure why.

He leafs through the file. A grainy picture of Stark holding his official tag and grinning lasciviously at the camera. You’re not supposed to smile for those photos, but he figures it’s not the first time Stark’s got away with something.

The list of his contracts is surprisingly, depressingly, short. O. Stane. H. Murray. Two names in total. Steve raises his brows. “Aren’t you a little…” he starts.

“What,” Stark asks, bluntly.

“Well, aren’t you a little old to have only had two contracts?” Steve replies, figuring that if Stark is going to be short with him, he’ll be short back.

“Twenty years,” Stark reminds him, stonily.

Steve reads where it details his current programme. He needs to check in once every two weeks with H. Murray. A strictly service relationship – no sexual gratification for either party. There are no relationship clauses, either, save that if he wants to be sub-leased for a short-term contract, Murray needs to sign off. Most everything else is flexible – morning and nightly routine, drink and drug privileges, hours spent working…

There’s a second line, detailing the reprimands Murray has doled out over their five-year partnership. In 2009, Stark was put on curfew of 10PM for two months after a DUI that was passed out of court to the state – in other words, rather than face jail-time or a fine, Stark levied his position as a ward to have justice collected in-house, by the state of California. He was also charged twenty ass-whips with a tool of Murray’s choice, but there’s a note that writes discretion was used to commute this to just five. An embarrassingly lenient sentence for a crime that can put a normal person in jail, or accidentally kill another. Or, himself.

In 2010, he was placed under house-arrest with Murray’s authority after a birthday party gone wrong. The report is scant on details of the punishment – it looks like SHIELD has redacted most of the important parts.

In early 2012, Stark was given ten ass-whips with a leather belt, carried out by a state-registered superior – not even Murray, his official dom – for conducting the building of Stark tower in a manner ‘unsafe to himself’. The line notes that there was video footage of him flying concrete beams into the sky. Steve has a gut feeling that without the evidence, Stark would have gotten off free.

There’s a section on Stark’s mental profile that’s been redacted. So has any and all details regarding O. Stane. But then, Steve isn’t his superior – he has no right to the information. Yet.

He flips the page to a shortened briefing of Stark’s preferences. It’s all surprisingly traditional. Maybe too traditional. Like it’s been cut and paste from a typical list suggestion. Routine. Weekly check-ups. Tasks. Apparently, Stark likes a more hands-off approach – supposedly, he’s happy being directed by text, and the occasional phone call. Even though he’s skinnier now that Steve remembers, and his cheeks are looking gaunter, and he keeps twitching his leg like he’s nervous, or worse, afraid.

Stark also likes serving in all the right traditional ways. He will draw you a bath and buy you gifts and fix you a drink, according to what it says in the file. There’s a note from a state psych which reads, _Mr Stark can be more than obliging when paired with the right partner. He needs a firmer hand than most, due to his temperamental nature and stubborn streak, but in the right circumstances will go above and beyond to ensure his superior is comfortable and content. _

The sexual preferences are, admittedly, more interesting.

“Like what you see?” Stark asks, waggling his brows. Steve frowns at him, unimpressed.

“How much of this is real?” He asks. “As in, how much is accurate?”

“Low-balling, maybe 30%,” Stark says honestly. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for – a sexual element.”

Which is fine, neither is Steve. Still. “Do you date?”

Stark scoffs. “Of course I date. It’s not like old Murray is giving me any.”

Steve feels his lips press together at Stark’s disrespectful tone. It’s not his place, obviously, but still – it’s no good, talking about your superior that way. “I was just wondering, is all. You ever had a permission clause written into your contract?”

Stark’s eyes are sharp. “No, why?” He demands.

“Just wondering,” Steve reassures. “It seems to me like you’ve been given pretty much free reign.”

“I haven’t,” Stark says, and he seems almost – tired. He shuts his eyes, shakes his head. “Believe me when I say, I haven’t, okay? At least… not always. Murray is different. He’s the superior I needed while I was starting Iron Man. He kept the feds off my back, loyally, and didn’t ask for anything in return which is – so fucking rare. So freaking rare,” he corrects, when he sees the look on Steve’s face.

“I wouldn’t stop that,” Steve feels obliged to say, “I wouldn’t stop you. I’d give you free reign with him. I mean _it,”_ he corrects, frowning. “Iron Man.”

“I know. That’s why I chose you.”

Steve wants to say, _you barely know me, _but then it’s not as if Stark would have known much about Murray either. Maybe, for what Stark wants, you don’t need a personal touch. Just needs the routine, and the knowledge there’s someone to rely on. A borderline case, which Steve knows exists.

Stark _is _stubborn. Steve has never seen him being reprimanded, although that might have something to do with Murray’s lax… discretion. He’s never seen Stark put in a collar, or losing privileges, or put through public punishment. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t need it. He always seemed strong; he went through New York without problem, right? And that recent business with the president. He knows Stark was captured when he was still a civilian, and you hear all kinds of awful things about what they do to subs like him, but by all accounts he seemed _okay _after.

Steve twists his lips. “You know, I like taking a more hands-on approach. It’s just my method.”

“That’s fine,” Stark says quickly, “I can do that, too, if that’s what you want. I can do anything.”

“You don’t even know what it means, yet.”

“I know you’re a good guy. And – “ Stark sighs “ – and if I don’t get my contract released and into someone else’s hands by the end of the month, I get shovelled to the federal level. And then it becomes _much _harder for me to break contract, okay?”

“You shouldn’t rush into these things, Stark,” Steve feels himself reprimanding, just slightly. He tries to level his voice back to neutral. “For all you know, I could be a – sadist. Would you want to belong to a sadist?”

“You’re a good guy,” Stark presses again with that blind optimism, “and even if you were – you play by the rules, right? So I’d be able to take it. I bet you listen to safewords, huh? And I bet you log every single punishment, too.”

“Of course,” Steve says, stiffly.

“Good. Call me Tony, by the way.”

“Tony,” Steve agrees. “I can’t help but shake the feeling you haven’t thought this through.”

Stark exhales, minutely, evidently frustrated. “Take that file,” he says. “Read through it, tonight.”

“I want the unredacted copy.”

“No.”

Steve raises a brow. “You can’t expect me to own you based on a few heavily-edited sheets of paper, right? It doesn’t say _anything _in here about your first contract, and that’s twenty years missing. I need an up-to-date, accurate list of your preferences. Including sexual preferences.”

“I haven’t got time for that,” Stark likes, pushing paper around his desk to look busy.

Steve stands. “You’re going to make time,” he says, carefully. And then, when Stark doesn’t look up, he says it again, and this time doesn’t hold back. “Tony,” he says, sternly. “You’re going to update it. You’re going to include the parts that have been blacked out, _all _the parts that have been blacked out. I want your honest preferences. You are going to tell me your sexual preferences, everything. If you need extra time, that’s fine – I want it on my desk by tomorrow, 8PM at the latest. Now, did you understand that?”

Stark’s fingers have stopped fiddling with his papers. He stares at him, eyes wide, pretty blindsided. Watching him, almost. Like maybe, the message has gotten through. Then: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A glass of wine and a list of my most intimate sexual preferences, that’s probably the kind of thing you like.”

See, the thing is, that sure does get his back up – it frustrates him, and twists him in the all the wrong ways, being spoken to like that by a would-be subordinate. But. _But. _

Jesus, to break in Tony Stark. All that fire, huh? What would he be like if Steve put him over the desk and swatted him with his shoe till he was red and rosy? Would it just make him more antagonistic, further the game to the deeper reprimands, the ones that require balance and psych knowledge, the kind of thing where Steve needs to know exactly what Stark hates and _exactly _what he needs. Or, would he go all quiet, and dozy, content at the structure, and the pain. He’d – lay out on the desk, after, pants around his ankles. He wouldn’t move, because Steve hadn’t told him to move. His fingers would be curled around the edge of the desk, and when Steve fists his hand in his hair to pull back his head, his eyes are round and pupils spaced, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and maybe –

Maybe, he’s hard, too. Devastated by it, but undeniably so.

To see Tony Stark like that. Or at least, to try and win those responses from him.

“I need the list,” Steve says again. “What you like, what you hate. It’s not difficult, Tony.”

Stark doesn’t avert his gaze, unafraid. He certainly isn’t submissive, or at least, is good at hiding it. Probably has to be. “And what if you take that very sensitive information and decide you don’t want me? Where does that leave me, working with you, while you know all my secrets?”

“What do you think I’ll do with your secrets?” Steve asks. He’s genuinely curious.

“Use them against me. Obviously.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Yeah? Lots of things are illegal.” Stark wrinkles his nose, like he’s unimpressed.

“Well, it’s not a problem. Don’t give me the file. Find someone else.” Steve shrugs, picks up his jacket and throws it over his arm. “I’ll see you next week, won’t I? For that gala.”

“No,” Starks says wearily, “wait.”

Steve pauses. “For what?” He asks, knowing full well.

“I could – I could give you the file. You’ll need to bear with me, but – I could get it to you tom – tonight. I could get it to you tonight.”

“Good,” Steve says, approvingly. “Thank you, Tony.”

And _now _he looks away, quickly, hands busy again twitching things on the desk that don’t need to be twitched. “Great, fine,” Stark mutters. “Take a read through. If you decide you’d like to… move forward, Murray’s number is there. You can go through me, but traditionally – “

“I’ll call him,” Steve reassures. “We’ll organise a date. _If _I like what I see, I mean.”

Stark nods again, still not meeting his gaze. “I’m busy,” he says, listlessly, even though Steve suspects he isn’t, really. He figures it’s a dismissal. He thinks, Stark’s the only subordinate he’s ever seen so comfortable giving orders. He thinks he likes that.

Stark does send it through that evening, at 8PM sharp. Punctual, which Steve thinks is good. He likes punctuality. Printed out, it’s far thicker than the paltry file he’d read in the office – hell, it details _everything _of his first twenty-year contract, every single official reprimand starting all the way back in 1991. Stark has clearly gone through and edited out his preferences more honestly, with short paragraphs justifying each one. His sexual preferences make more sense. His mental profile ties it all together.

Stark was contracted on a rolling basis to O. Stane at age 20, after his parents passed away. It reads the Stane was a family friend and business partner – figures, because you need a guardian until majority age, and there were a few months between Stark’s twenty-first birthday that would need to be covered for legality.

Interestingly, though, after the six-month contract ended, Stark renewed. And continued to renew, every six months, for the next twenty years. In all that time, the terms never changed, except for a few preferences here and there; it was strictly platonic, and Stane acted as a guardian in the sense that he was a confidante and looked out for Stark’s interest in the board-room. Maybe there was a time when Tony wasn’t as strong as he is now. The psych who wrote the report details the strength of their partnership, and how Stane played a mostly custodial role. No sex. They never lived together. Their six-month renewal date passed while Stark was in Afghanistan, but he renewed immediately after returning home.

There are reprimands, which flipping through all seem fair – Stark had a rocky first few years, DUIs, a couple arrests, all dealt with in-contract. He was revoked access to his cars for five months after a DUI, he was doled out corporal punishment in the form of switch on his right palm (he’s left-handed) for a few misdemeanours regarding work. He was, interestingly, given a private spanking in front of his board of directors, not open to the public. The details are vague. Something to do with a pattern of disrespect and poor work performance, which could be merited. That does things to Steve, more than he cares to admit – he thinks Stark might have hated it. He thinks –

Yeah, he thinks. He clears his throat, even though he’s alone, and doesn’t wonder whether Stark was naked for his punishment or if they took turns or if they made him thank them after each swat.

There are a few other reprimands, mostly routine, all fairly spaced out. Nothing after 2008, which figures, because Stark goes missing that spring, and Stane is dead not long after he gets back. A plane crash. Sad, Steve thinks. Tony must have cared about him.

He glosses over the parts about Murray he’s already read. Sexual preferences have been re-written in detail. Blistering detail, in fact. Steve can sense some malicious compliance on Stark’s part, but he doesn’t mind.

The first bullet point is ‘eager to please’. Under it, Stark has written, _I like to be used however my Superior prefers, the only exception is my severe dislikes. I am happy to do anything else, even if it is a dislike._

Which is interesting – Stark seems so stubborn, and so sure of himself, but then… yeah, maybe he likes the approval, or something. Likes making his superior happy, Steve could see that. It makes sense, when looking at the long list of things Stark says he likes; he would have been better of just listing the things he _doesn’t, _because he’s listed almost every act defined in the SSM.

Among others, he dislikes blind obedience, in that he doesn’t want to be told to do something he knows isn’t possible, or will have negative consequences. Good. So does Steve. He also dislikes bathroom play, which is vague, but can easily be avoided.

His severe dislikes include anything involving human waste or fluid, and public humiliation. Stark has a very sure self-image, a _meticulous _brand of confidence and charm. Steve understands completely why he would hate to have it stripped away. He sees why Stane chose public spanking in front of his board members to keep him straight – something like that must have been devastating for him.

His ‘Will Never Dos’ states he will not engage in play involving knives, and physical body modification. No animals. Fine. All fairly standard. Not that it should matter, because their contract will be platonic. But, it may be that someone hurts Stark or violates his preferences while Steve is his superior; he needs to know his hard no’s.

His psych profiles details an individual who struggles with traditional submission, although this should not be confused with him not needing it as much as any other subordinate. Stark is clever; more than clever, in fact. He suffers from a unique brand of stress which requires a firm hand to unwind. Crucially, his temperament needs someone steady, and willing to put in hours to both understand his complex needs and accommodate them. In short, he needs an intellectual equal, because he’s not easy to outsmart, and if he knows he has the upper hand you’ll never get him under control.

Due to how tricky it is to offer him the dominance he needs, Stark has a habit to self-medicate. Drink and drugs. Since 2008, he had shown evidence of mild post-traumatic stress. This section is still redacted, which is fair enough – Steve shouldn’t be able to access his medical history yet.

The psych has left a note that tells a slightly different story. _While Mr Stark is not traditionally submissive, which I’m sure has been a benefit to him in his work, his test scores have consistently shown him to be consistently in the upper quartile of the population for how quickly he falls into subspace and, crucially, recently tested into the 98th percentile for depth. While I know Mr Stark is disinclined to agree, these test results are invariably congruent with a subordinate who requires a far more hand’s on approach that Mr Stark believes he needs._

There’s another page that lists test results from Stark’s latest physical. You’re supposed to get them yearly, without fail – it looks like Stark’s attendance has been pretty patchy, with his most recent dated from 2011. Steve will rectify that, immediately. If – if he takes on Stark’s contract, of course. He had looked ill, earlier, sickly and pale. Steve wants a full examination.

Stark has highlighted Murray’s number in yellow and circled it in pen. Steve sighs, runs his thumb over all the pages.

He’s never had a contract before. He’s had all the training – or at least, the training that was relevant to a Captain in WWII with subordinate soldiers. His actual hands-on experience is pretty minimal, and Stark seems like a… difficult case. Maybe it would be better to leave him to the feds. They could probably run their tests and Stark’s answers and find someone who could give him exactly what he needs.

Stark doesn’t seem self-destructive, though. There’s no reason why he should fear a good superior. Steve suspects it has more to do with the federal government _owning _his contract that has Stark on edge; with his history, it’s no wonder he wants into private ownership. The government has been after his suits for years, and even though Steve likes to think those kinds of abuses never happen, a different kind of superior might not have qualms about – doing things, to Stark, that make him more likely to comply. Especially if it’s ruled ‘in his best interest’.

What does Steve know about Stark, other than what he’s read here today?

Well, he knows he’s a hero. He knows he’s brash, and bold, and sometimes cruel, but that he’s a good person. That he’s smarter than smart, that he comes highly recommended.

And what reasons does Steve have to want to own him?

Stark doesn’t look well. Steve own personal preferences have always tended towards the – caring side. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t like it rough, because there’s a part of him that wants nothing more, dark and crooked inside him, that wants to see Stark on his knees with a bare ass and delicious desperation. He wants that brokenness to be _earned. _

On a practical level, owning Stark’s contract might be better for their team cohesiveness. He could even have it written into their contract, that they both live in the tower. Steve can’t imagine a long-distance contract, he needs to be able to see his sub, make sure they’re doing well, that they’re healthy and happy. There’s too much to hide over long distance, which is probably why Stark has enjoyed it so far, to his detriment.

He can call Murray. Nothing needs to be fixed; they can meet, he can discuss the realities of Stark’s care, and if either of them change their minds they can just go on their way.

So he arranges a meeting three days from now at The Plaza (Tony’s choice, Murray tells him, because Tony likes fine things). He sounds nice, older, but friendly over the phone.

When they meet, Stark is already waiting, with Murray. Maybe they came together; he’s playfully fixing Murray’s tie, straightening his lapels, when Steve walks in. Stark nods at him, once, while Murray shakes his hand.

“Why don’t you go to the lounge,” Murray tells Stark, opening his wallet and pulling out a twenty. “One drink, now,” he warns, “you know I’ll know if it’s any more.”

Stark smiles at him, salutes, stuffs the bill in his pocket. It seems strange, that Murray would need to give someone as rich as Tony money. He must see the confusion on his face. “It’s an allowance,” he explains. “He gives me a few thousand every month. It’s a, uh,” and Murray watches him closely, “an arrangement.”

Steve had wondered how he was able to afford The Plaza. “He likes having his money controlled?”

Murray stares at him. “No,” he says, carefully, like Steve is slow. “He’s bribing me, Captain.”

Steve frowns. “Oh. Right. Yeah – okay.”

“Okay?”

“I guess that figures.”

Murray laughs. “C’mon,” he says, patting his shoulder, “let’s just discuss this, huh?”

They walk towards the bar. Steve is starting to understand. “He pays you, you take a step back.”

“Exactly it.”

“You’re a government employee,” Steve says, slightly reproachful. “That’s unethical.”

“Is it? If I wanted, I could draw up a contract that means I have total fiscal control over his spending. Every single cent, for every single purchase, from weapons-grade material to the nice panties I know he likes.” Murray smiles and nods at the bartender, slides a fifty across the podium as tip. “But what’s unethical him giving me that money of his own free will, huh?”

“If he’s paying you not to do your job,” Steve says, disapprovingly.

Murray cocks his head. “You like the rules, don’t you?”

Steve feels his jaw tighten. “He looks ill,” he says, shortly. “Like he hasn’t been eating, sleeping. Maybe, if you were doing your job, he wouldn’t look like that.”

And Murray’s eyes soften, slightly. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh, you actually care about him.”

Steve stares. The bartender slides them two scotches, neat. Murray looks apologetic, awkward. “He’s a good boy,” he says, voice low, hushed. “I’m very fond of him.”

“Sure. He pays you to be.”

Murray tilts his head, critical. “No,” he tells him, “because I am _fond _of him. And because I want the best for him. Do you think I’d be sitting here, negotiating this, if all I wanted was money? You think I don’t notice – “ and he lowers his voice again, agitated, “you think I don’t notice,” he whispers harshly, “that he’s _not well?”_

Steve leans forward. “What’s wrong with him?” He asks.

Murray tips back his head and drinks, quickly. He flags down the bartender, asks for another. “You saw that business with the president,” he mutters. “That mad-man, Killian?”

“I heard about it. Read the debrief.”

“You know, they blew up his home?”

“I saw that, too.”

“It’s just,” Murray says, tersely, “you asked why he was ill. You don’t think that’s got something to do with it?”

“It seems like the kind of thing he needs help dealing with,” Steve answers, slowly. “Have you helped him?”

“We were in Hong-Kong four months ago. He got his arc reactor removed. Do you know what that is?”

“I know what it is.” Steve isn’t stupid. “I noticed it was gone, Fury mentioned he’d had it removed.”

“That would be Nick Fury, correct?” Murray tsks, cups his drink. “You – you military men, you spies. Sometimes I doubt whether you have his best interests at heart.”

“I do,” Steve says, honestly. “For his sake. For all of our sakes.”

“Yeah,” Murray agrees, quietly. “But the thing is – he wasn’t sleeping. Not since what happened in New York. He tried to hide it, and he did,” Murray sounds ashamed, “for a while. It’s put all sorts of things in his head. It’s been hard for him.”

“Has he – “ Steve clears his throat, looks down. “Has he had any partners? Since then?”

Murray shakes his head. “Not one. Not since New York.”

“And you’ve never – he’s never asked you to, or you’ve never felt it was in his best interest to – “

“No.”

Steve nods. “He must be lonely,” he wagers.

“Maybe,” Murray admits, “but he’d never tell me that.”

Well then what’s the fucking point, Steve wants to ask him. Why even bother going into this line of work if you don’t want to _care _for someone who is so obviously hurting, who _deserves _to be cared for and is relying on _you _to do the right thing. “I want him,” Steve says, abruptly, surprising himself.

Murray looks up. “You do?”

He clears his throat. “I want to be good for him. I want to help him.”

“He’s not always so grateful for help. He can be a pretty thankless task.”

“Yeah well I’m not doing it for thanks. Or for money.”

“He can be cruel,” Murray warns. “He’ll test you. Try to tear you apart, set his boundaries.”

“I’ll be the one setting the boundaries.”

Murray exhales, brows raised. “You know what?” He says, “I hope so, Captain. I hope you can. He deserves happiness, you know?”

Steve nurses his drink. It’s good scotch. The kind of scotch Tony might buy. When he was younger – that’s how he thinks of it, in his head, not ‘back then’ or ‘before the war’ just when he was younger – he and Buck would split bills on a bottle of cheap spirit, bought from a guy down the street who made moonshine and sold legit booze at discount. They’d drink that, laughing at people in the street as they sat on the fire escape. And Steve thinks, it’s not just Stark who’s lonely.

After, when he’s shaking Murray’s hand, and nodding at Stark in the lobby, he can tell he’s nervous. There’s an awkward glint in his eye. Steve nods at him. “Can we talk?” He asks.

Now, it’s Steve who leads. Stark follows. He nods encouragingly when Steve gestures at a small alcove with a booth, stands aside to let him sit first. He doesn’t speak straight away. With subs like Stark – their minds are moving a mile a minute. Better to take it slow. Let the silence build, let Stark have to settle with the tension, accept it, because only Steve can talk first.

There’s a couple, standing some way away from them. A woman, phone in hand, heels sharp. She’s pinching a younger man’s chin, tipping back his head, left and right. A superior, and her subordinate. Distractedly, she brushes some lint off of his shoulders, and cups the side of his neck, kisses his cheek. He laughs, and looks over his shoulder at her as he leaves.

He realises, Stark is still silent, staring at him, tense. Steve blinks himself out of it, turns to him. “I think this could work,” he says, eventually.

Relief. “Thank you,” Stark says, voice a little thick. “Thank you, Steve. Seriously. You don’t know what this means.”

“You’re thanking me because you think I’m going to go easy on you,” Steve says, calmly. “You think, that this is just going to continue the way it’s already gone.”

“I don’t think that,” Tony replies, and Steve can tell he’s trying not to be belligerent. He shifts his weight. Like this, pressed into the alcove together, Steve is realising how small Stark is compared to him; if he wanted, he could pick him, press him against the wall, watch his toes try to touch the ground just to keep level.

Steve is distracting himself. “I’ll look over your programme, add my suggestions. There will be serious alterations.”

“Fine. Good,” Stark nods, smiling tightly.

“You’ll come back with your own revisions, I’ll agree or disagree. We go from there. My lawyer will be in touch.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” Stark asks, with an acerbic touch.

He does. It’s SHIELD’s, on retainer. “If we weren’t time-constrained, I’d want to give it more time,” Steve says honestly. “Maybe we could – strike up a rapport, I don’t know. You’d get to know me better, I guess.”

“I already know everything about you,” Stark says immediately. He looks away, then, quickly. Like he’s embarrassed to have said it.

“You don’t,” Steve says, quietly. “I don’t know it all about you, either. But – we make do, right? We’ll take it slow. I’m proposing six months, to be renewed at any time. That sound reasonable?”

“Eminently.” Stark’s smile is tight. “Seriously, Rogers. Thank you.”

Steve clears his throat, stands. “It’s fine, Stark. This could be good for both of us, you know?”

Tony reaches out, grips his wrist, and Steve realises neither of them has ever really touched before. “Right,” he says, meeting Steve’s eyes steadily, “but I need this.”

He seems to realise what he just said. He takes back his hand. “As in, I need you to – I don’t know what would happen to me, if the feds were in control. What they would try to take from me.”

“Well then it’s my duty,” Steve intones, only partially believing it. Stark’s fingers had been soft, but bony. Thin. His grip hadn’t been tight. “I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.”

And Stark smiles and nods, like he’s hopeful. He raises his hand once in farewell. In his reflection, which Steve sees in the mirror hanging from the wall, his smile drops when Steve’s back is turned. He looks tired. He downs the rest of his drink.

They sit at the table in one of the ugly state offices downtown. The chairs are plastic and the table is scratched, with gum stuck underneath. When Stark’s lawyer pours Steve a glass of water, he uses a napkin to avoid touching the jug.

“Just a note,” the state lawyer says, “everything we say today is being recorded. Mr Murray, Captain Rogers, Mr Stark. We are here to coordinate the releasing of Mr Stark from state protection into the conservatorship of Captain Rogers. If anyone at this table disagrees with this or, maybe thought we were here for another reason, let us know now.”

Predictably, no one says anything.

Stark’s wearing a nice suit. Dark blue, with a white button-down. Maybe he’s done that for Steve, for their first meeting tonight. Maybe he wants to make a good first impression. He looks neat, put-together, even though – bizarrely – Steve can tell he’s got some kind of creamy make-up underneath his eyes. To hide bruises, perhaps. Or maybe he got into a fight. He’s done his hair differently, too, slicked to the side rather than ruffled on his head.

It looks strange. And he holds himself stiff.

“Mr Murray,” the lawyer says, “all we need is your verbal consent, and then your signature on the dotted line.” She twists the release document in his direction, lays the pen by its side. “If you consent, please read out what it says right there, in bold.”

“On this day, June 2nd 2013, I – Superior Harold E. Murray – give my consent that my subordinate, Anthony E. Stark, be released from our contract.”

“And sign,” the lawyer presses, efficient. Murray does.

“It was fun,” he smiles, ruefully, at Stark. “You take care of him, now,” he tells Steve. “Don’t let him go jumping into trouble just because he flutters his eyelashes all pretty.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Stark look at him, half-grins, awkward; Steve doesn’t smile back, and it slips off his face. Steve wishes he’d smiled. Now Stark looks exhausted.

The state lawyer leaves with Murray. Stark’s guy doles out two copies of the contract they’ve drawn up, pushes his glasses up his nose. “Obviously, this is pre-agreed, but we’re going to have to read through it together today. It’s a formality, you understand.”

Stark doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring at a spot on the table, frowning, distracted. So Steve answers for both of them. “Sure,” he says, “of course.”

The lawyer outlines Steve’s rights. He’ll decide on Stark’s schedule. He’ll have substance privileges, and Steve will decide access to alcohol on a rolling basis. No drugs. There’s a curfew of 12AM, but it’s extendable so long as Stark lets Steve know where he’ll be. Relationships are fine, but if something goes long-term, Stark will need to let Steve know.

Stark snorts when he hears that, like it won’t be a problem.

There will be a weekly check-in and session. Every Friday, starting at 6PM. Non-negotiable. If what Stark put on his preferences is accurate, Steve should be getting him into a comfortable subspace at least once a week, which should turn into a comfortable routine for him. If Stark ever feels like he needs more, all he has to do is ask.

Reprimands will be doled out on a case-by-case basis. If Stark ever feels he has been unfairly punished, discussion is the first port of call. If not, he can bring it to his lawyers’ attention. Legally, the lawyer reminds, he is free to safeword at any point during a punishment, and Steve’s failure to comply can lead to a sentence of up to thirty years.

Steve nods. Right.

Stark snorts again, like the idea is funny.

The lawyer says Steve can apply for permission to ignore Stark’s safe-word for certain reprimands on a case by case basis, which seems – obscene. He doesn’t remember that being an accepted thing back when he was younger, but then, there were nowhere near as many subordinate protections, either.

The lawyer stresses that the contract is non-sexual. If they want to review this at a later date, it’s flexible. But Steve is disallowed from touching him in a sexual manner unless this occurs. The lawyer then spends an excruciatingly long time listing all the ways Steve can touch Stark that might be construed as sexual, while Steve’s ear tips turn red and Stark sinks into his chair.

And when they sign, Stark doesn’t even look at him, except to give him a thumbs up. He scatters his signature across the page, lets the pen roll off the table. “Congratulations,” the lawyer tells them, both, but he’s looking at Steve.

They walk out of the building in silence, and it’s raining.

Steve clears his throat. “I’ll call a cab,” he says, and Stark nods. He’s getting wet.

Steve shucks off his jacket and holds it aloft, over both of their heads. Stark smiles at him, wanly. “Thanks,” he says.

They wait for the cab. Stark says, his driver could have come, but Steve wants to do this right. He wants this first session to be _his. _He wants to pay for the cab, and he wants to make the dinner. He wants to show Stark – _Tony, _what he can do for him. How good he can be for him.

The rain splashes against the concrete. In the heat, the air smells humid, ozone. Like there’s a storm coming.

“Thor,” Tony murmurs.

“Hmm?”

Tony looks at him. “Thor,” he says again, and smiles, just as the first crack of lightning flashes against the sky.

Steve gets it. He laughs. “I should have asked,” he says, as the cab pulls up the sidewalk. “Your word.”

Tony looks at him blankly. “My safeword?”

“Sure.” Steve ducks his head, presses Tony slightly closer so his coat still covers his head as he opens the door for him. “You never said.”

Tony shakes his head and frowns, like he had forgotten. “Uh,” he sighs, “abluvium.”

Steve holds open the cab door. “Latin. What’s it mean?”

“That I was a pretentious twenty-year old,” Tony snorts, and so does Steve. That was funny.

Steve gives the driver directions. They peel away from the curb, and the silence isn’t as awkward as it was before. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tony talks.  
  
He _talks. _The awkward, strained silence gets filled with non-stop chatter. Constant, the whole taxi ride to Steve’s apartment. He talks about the weather, and celebrities, and quantum physics. He talks about coffee, and how the state-lawyer stunk of BO. He talks about Murray’s alcoholism, and his move to New York and he _doesn’t stop, _not once, not even to let Steve answer, until they pull up outside his building.  
  
He waits for Steve to open the door for him, is still talking about 90s indie music when he steps out, like Steve never left. “And that’s why it’s the best decade,” he says, decisively, stepping over a puddle. “You know? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Steve.”  
  
Steve nods, fiddling for his keys. “I’ll add it to my list,” he says, distractedly, wiping his feet on the mat. “Just through here,” he tells him, “up the stairs. First apartment on the left.”  
  
Tony clears his throat. “It’s cosy,” he says, mounting the steps. Steve can tell he’s just being polite; he thinks Tony has apartments worth five times this one that he uses for storage, and he tries not to be embarrassed.  
  
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” he tries to joke, letting them in. “We’ll be in your tower, soon.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Tony says, like he had forgotten. Which is – not reassuring, at all.  
  
“Let me take your coat,” Steve offers. He wants this to be set off right, start the correct way. “Can I get you something to drink?”  
  
“Shouldn’t I be offering?” Tony says, going for a smile.  
  
“No. That’s not how I do things.”  
  
And Tony’s smile drops. Steve can sense the nervous energy off of him, now, and he wishes, _again, _that he could just stop saying the wrong things. He wants Tony to be comfortable. Hell, he wants Tony to _enjoy _this, that’s the whole point.  
  
“Not tonight,” he tries to correct, to put Tony at ease. “Just relax tonight, okay? I want this – to do something for you. When was the last time you went under?”  
  
Even though his back is turned, Steve can tell Tony is working up the lie in his head. “Maybe,” he starts, “maybe, I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe.”  
  
“And the truth?” Steve presses, turning.  
  
Tony glares. “More than a month,” he tells him. “Six weeks.”  
  
Six weeks. Fucking hell. Out of curiosity, Steve asks: “Why?”  
  
“Why wait that long?”  
  
“Yes. _Why. _What do you – that isn’t good for you, is it?”  
  
“How about that drink?” Tony tries to push past him.  
  
And Steve closes a hand, gently, just above his elbow. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” he murmurs.  
  
Tony stalls. He looks up at him, lips tight, eyes weary, and wary. Steve can see the gears churning in his head, trying to think of how to reply. “Can I…” he says, shutting his eyes. “Can I not answer the question now.” And then he adds: “Please. Sir.”  
  
Steve feels his thumb stroking slowly on Tony’s upper arm. He doesn’t want to answer the question. Here’s the thing: he hasn’t been combative, or tried to dodge. He’s just stated his preference, respectfully. And there is no reason tonight to push it, to drive him hard just to make a point. Steve wants to make him feel happy. So, let’s set the tone tonight.  
  
“Okay,” Steve says, calm. “That’s fine, too. Thank you telling me, Tony. I – I would like you to tell me, always. If something isn’t working for you, if anything is too much. Just tell me.”  
  
Tony’s eyes are still shut, and when he smiles, it’s false. But he’s swaying slightly on his feet. “Uh,” he says, frowning slightly. “That’s good, then.”  
  
He doesn’t open his eyes. Steve cocks his head, curious; his words have smeared together, slightly. He hasn’t moved. Is this – is he – already?! “Tony,” Steve tries, cautious, voice low and level. “Open your eyes for me.”  
  
He slides them open, hazy. And doesn’t say anything.  
  
Steve swallows. “Here,” he says, hearing that his own voice is slightly rough, throat thick. He takes Tony’s left wrist, gently turns it over. “Hold my hands, would you?”  
  
“Sure,” Tony replies, easily.  
  
“Take off your shoes,” Steve urges him. Tony has laced his fingers through Steve’s, which isn’t quite what he meant, but it at least demonstrates some level of trust. “Just leave them there tonight. We’ll ease into the rules slowly. Soon, they’ll be second nature. You won’t even need to worry about them at all, but – tonight, I don’t want you to worry about pleasing me, right? Just relax.”  
  
“Ease into it,” Tony agrees, nodding. “Relax.”  
  
Steve has to pull away his hands. “Here,” he says, crossing the floor to pull out a chair at the table. “I want you to sit here, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Tony – sighs. Wistful. “You cooking tonight?”  
  
Steve would have, if he knew how to cook anything that didn’t come out of a can. “Maybe one day,” he tells him, “I don’t want to punish you on your first night.”  
  
Tony laughs, and for a moment, Steve stares at him astounded. Oh – _oh, _he was laughing at Steve’s joke! Steve laughs, too, and feels nice and warm inside the way a superior should do when they make their subordinate happy.  
  
“I’m sure you’re not all that bad,” Tony says, leaning back in the chair, slightly. “We ordering in?”  
  
Steve is almost embarrassed to tell him that, actually, Natasha cooked their dinner tonight as a – congratulations. Tony frowns a little at that, sitting forward against the table. Steve thinks that’s annoyed him, or reminded him that Natasha exists and that other people are going to have to know about their agreement, because his words stop slurring together like he’s falling down into the space. Instead, he says quite sharply, “well I hope it isn’t poisoned.”  
  
“You don’t like her,” Steve realises.  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Tony answers, cagey. “She’s your friend,” he says, like that means he’s forbidden from having an opinion.  
  
“She’s not a bad person.”  
  
“I didn’t say she was.” Tony twists in his chair, looks over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” He asks, changing the subject, or maybe genuinely curious.  
  
“Preparing,” Steve says, and decides to let Tony sit with the anticipation a bit. It’s okay to feel slightly nervous. It will make the fall deeper, more fulfilling.  
  
“What are you – can I ask? Am I allowed to ask? What you’ve planned?”  
  
“Sure.” Steve winds rope around his hand. “Nothing too hard. This should all nice and gentle for you.”  
  
“You keep, uh,” Tony half-laughs, “using those words.”  
  
“Which words, Tony?”  
  
“Gentle, and – ease, and soft, and relax. They tell you to use those words in a manual, or something?”  
  
Steve dims the lights. “Not any manual I’ve read.” He makes sure his steps are soft, his shoes clipping against the floorboards.  
  
Stark’s shoulders look tight, stiff. Steve stands next to him, and he stares at the rope. “You going to tie me up?”  
  
“I’m going to feed you,” Steve says, simply. He puts the rope on the table, holds out his hand. “Give me your arm, would you?”  
  
Tony hesitates; it’s the briefest thing, but Steve notices it, and he resolves to make this as good for him as possible. It’s trust building exercise. He turns over Tony’s hand, gently; his thumb rests against Tony’s pulse.  
  
And he just lets Tony acclimatise to the touch again, until his pulse start to slow.  
  
“I’m going to roll up your sleeve,” Steve tells him, quietly.  
  
“Okay,” Tony agrees, voice equally soft, a whisper.  
  
He carefully unpicks the cuff, inches Tony’s sleeve up his forearm. He keeps his hands on him at all times; the contact is crucial. His fingers smooth down Tony’s arm.  
  
He repeats, with the other side. Tony’s breathing has slowed.  
  
“When I was trained,” Steve murmurs, crouching so he can wrap the soft, buttery rope around Tony’s wrist, “they weren’t teaching us how to be nice. They wanted us to lead soldiers. So, they taught us to discipline, and dominate.”  
  
He threads the rope together, neatly, and gently takes Tony’s other wrist. He repeats, with the same coil. “There were other things too,” he reasons. “A lot of our subordinates – they were the bravest men I ever met, Tony. Good soldiers. But they had different needs. The army wasn’t willing to meet those needs. Sure, there was routine, and discipline, but there was also… gunfire, and bombs. And at the end, all the routine in the world couldn’t stop the shakes.”  
  
He delicately cinches Tony’s wrists together, rests them lightly in his lap, covered by his palm. “There,” he says, quietly. “All wrapped up and safe, now.”  
  
Tony swallows, audibly. He isn’t speaking, his head is tipped back slightly, mouth loose and eyes shut. Steve makes sure to keep contact, trailing his hand up Stark’s arm and to his back, telegraphing his movements.  
  
He puts his palms against Tony’s shoulders and then squeezes, once, _slow. _“Breathe in for me,” he urges, releasing, and Tony does. And then, when he squeezes again, he exhales, the tension sinking out of his shoulders.  
  
“That’s good,” Steve says, warmly. “Look at that, you just unwound. I didn’t even need to tell you, you just trusted me.”  
  
“Thanks,” Tony slurs.  
  
Steve stands at his back a little while longer, just letting Tony warm to the feel of his hands. “I figured,” he continues, kneading his thumbs very slightly into the muscles of Tony’s shoulders, “that I wasn’t cut out to be that kind of superior. None of them were getting what they needed. The higher-ups were wrong, discipline wasn’t enough. They needed – comfort. And touch. But I guess I couldn’t help all of them.”  
  
“You really like it,” Tony murmurs. “Huh.”  
  
“What do I like?” Steve murmurs, questioning. “Tell me what you think I like.”  
  
Tony’s brow furrows, just slightly. “Being…” he starts, and trails off. “Nice,” is the word he decides on.  
  
Steve inches his hands up Tony’s shoulders so his thumbs can gently stroking his nape, tickling the hairs at the back of his head. “I do like being nice,” Steve agrees, “and I liked being nice for my soldiers, too. I learnt, that I was the kind of person who like to see people happy, and content. It makes me happy, too.”  
  
“That’s lucky,” Tony’s says, words smearing together, “because – you want to be nice to me?”  
  
There had been that note in Tony’s file – that he does under just so quick, and so deep. It’s alright. Steve is prepared for it. “I do,” Steve tells him, firm, with a soft voice. “I want you to trust me, so I can make you feel better.”  
  
“Oh,” is all Tony manages.  
  
He’s sweet like this, trusting and mellow. One of Tony’s most liked preferences is rope; Steve is happy to oblige him. He’s jerking his knee, nervous, and Steve mentally files it as one of Tony’s tells, a habit. He doesn’t command him to stop, because he doesn’t think Tony even realises he’s doing it.  
  
Keeping a point of contact on his shoulder, Steve moves round to stand in front of him. With a free hand, he carefully tips up his chin, looks at his eyes; pupils nice and round, no obvious signs of tension other than the twitchy leg. Falling under nice and steady, good and healthy.  
  
Steve smiles, and Tony mirrors him, maybe not even aware he’s doing it – still, it’s a good sign. Instinctually copying body language means there’s at least some level of trust. And when Steve squeezes his shoulder, as a mild reward, he has the pleasure of watching as Tony’s eyes go blatantly hazy, pleased and soft, a slight shiver down his spine that Steve feels beneath his fingers.  
  
Steve realises, he really loves the touch.  
  
“You feeling good?” He checks in, keeping his voice low. “You’re doing great, Tony.”  
  
“Okay,” Tony sighs. “That’s… thanks. Sir.”  
  
Later, some other time, after they’ve built up some routine, Steve will start to insist on better language. _Thank you, _and _please, _and, _you’re welcome, Sir. _Then, Tony won’t even need to expend the brainpower thinking how best to please Steve with his words – he won’t need to get that little furrow in his brow, like he’s trying to think which words Steve wants to hear, as if to say the wrong thing would bring about reprimand.  
  
Slowly, Steve slides his hand off Tony’s shoulder. He flicks his eyes up at him, remarkably shrewd for someone as under as he is. “Sorry,” he says, inaudibly, testing the give of the rope on his wrists.  
  
“Why are you sorry?”  
  
“For… whatever I did,” he nods, like it’s the right answer.  
  
Steve doesn’t understand, but this time, he lets it slide. Later. “I’m going to blindfold you,” he tells him. “Unless, you don’t want to. It’s up to you, Tony.”  
  
Tony shrugs a shoulder, lax. “Don’t mind,” he says. “Don’t want to choose.”  
  
Steve takes the blindfold from his back pocket. Just simple cotton, easy enough to wrap around Tony’s eyes. He presses it to his cheek, so he recognises the material. “Your file says you like blindfolds, but they’re not your favourite,” he says, as a sequitur, neatly trying it at the back of his head.  
  
Tony seems to take a while to think of what he wants to say. “I don’t like being surprised,” he says, with clarity.  
  
Steve makes a note of it. He slides his hands back down to Tony’s shoulders. “Okay,” he says, voice hushed. “I’ll remember that.”  
  
He squeezes his hands again, and this time Tony breathes in line with him without needing to be told.  
  
“Tony,” Steve tells him, quietly. “I’m going to go into the kitchen. I need to heat up food. I’ll be gone – five minutes, maximum. You need me, you call.”  
  
“Won’t need you,” Tony says in one breath, an exhale, unbothered. Steve doesn’t know if it’s stubbornness, and pride, or an eagerness to please. Maybe both.  
  
But he wants to give Tony some time to adjust to the darkness, let his other senses compensate. Natasha’s prepared some kind of chicken, rich, stewed in gravy with a flaky crust. Not the most practical for finger-feeding. It smells like the kind of thing his mom would make on special occasions, except she’d use beef, and the gravy would be thinned out. The pastry was always fresh, though.  
  
Steve doesn’t think about that. It’s no good. And it’s important to keep himself in the here, and now. There’s someone out there who’s counting on him.  
  
It’s good to have someone counting on him, again.  
  
He doles out Tony’s portion feeling more content than he has in a long time. He’s maybe over-generous with the plate – Tony doesn’t have to eat all of it, but he looks so sickly. Steve can see his collarbones from beneath his shirt. It would do him good to eat a home-cooked meal. Maybe, Steve’s a little old-fashioned, believing in that kind of thing. But then, maybe it’s not wrong, just because it’s old-fashioned.  
  
He washes his hands, and takes the nice water from the refrigerator. Fiji water, it’s called. Steve thinks it just tastes like plain old water at three times the price, but Natasha had said Tony likes it, and he wanted to do right by him, even if it’s just a one off.  
  
He’s still sitting quietly, breath nice and easy, slow and steady. “Tony,” Steve says, voice low enough not to break the silence.  
  
Tony doesn’t respond.  
  
He tries again. “Tony. I brought food.”  
  
Tony – slowly – licks his lower lip. He twists his wrists in the rope, gently, enjoying the sensation. “Thanks, Sir,” he murmurs. His words are smushed and smudged together, a smear out of his lips. Quietly, Steve sets the plate on the table, presses two fingers against his neck to take his pulse.  
  
Tony gasps, lightly, like at the shock of the touch – but Steve’s fingers are warm. His mouth remains slightly open, lips parted, in a pretty ‘O’. His pulse stays steady.  
  
“You like the touch,” Steve states, sitting himself perpendicular and tucking himself in.  
  
Tony nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, head tipped back. “This is, uh… this is pretty trippy, Rogers.”  
  
“You feel good?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Tony agrees, and sighs. “I feel real good.”  
  
“You’re very verbal,” Steve comments, half-smiling.  
  
“Sorry,” Tony says immediately, “I won’t be. I’ll just – tell me to stop.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Steve replies, levelly, not feeding Stark’s fear. Maybe, as he goes under, he gets a little anxious. That’s normal. His file did say he likes to please. Steve wants him to feel comfortable. He wants him to talk, if that’s what he likes. “I’m going to feed you now, Tony. It’s just chicken, nothing fancy. You need water, just ask.”  
  
“You think this is weird?” Tony blurts, brow furrowing slightly beneath the blindfold. “This isn’t weird for you?”  
  
Steve puts down the strip of chicken, dripping with gravy, pinched between his fingers. “Is this too much?” He asks.  
  
“No,” Tony tells him. He pauses, gnawing on his lip; his leg is twitching again. “You, uh – “ he tries to think past the lassitude, “you’re not going to – this won’t change anything. I should have said before, I’m sorry.”  
  
“What will it change, Tony?”  
  
“Everything,” he says.  
  
Steve doesn’t answer, not straight away. He picks at the chicken. “Open your mouth, Tony,” he says gently. “It’s just some chicken.”  
  
Tony opens his mouth obliging, easily; his teeth are perfectly straight, his tongue pink, and he sticks it out to receive the food, chews and swallows. “Thanks,” he says, voice slightly croaky. “I mean – thank you, Sir, for feeding me.” A beat. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, then. “I’m sorry if I’ve made it awkward, I – I didn’t mean to insult you. This is good. This is great.”  
  
“I’m not mad, Tony,” Steve says, making sure his voice his soft so Tony actually believes him. “Here. Have some more.” Tony doesn’t like the silence, he realises. And he likes affirmation.  
  
This time, Tony chatters, nervously, as soon as he’s swallowed. “You’re doing a good job,” he says, even though Steve thinks he’s only saying it because he’s – afraid, maybe, of what Steve might do otherwise. “It’s not weird. That’s not what I meant. You’re not weird, this is good, you know?”  
  
Steve is sad that he’s pulling up again when he’d gotten him so settled before. “Relax,” he tries to soothe. “You want some water?”  
  
A pause. Then, Tony nods.  
  
Steve uncaps it, gently cups the back of his head, guides the lip to his mouth to let him sip. Tony does. And – purposefully, with intent, even though he didn’t think of it until the very moment he acted – Steve pulls away the bottle too soon.  
  
Water slips down Tony’s chin. It rolls down his throat, dampens his button-down. “Oh,” Tony says, “I – shit. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Steve tells him, placidly. He picks up a napkin, wraps it around his fingers. “It’s just an accident, Tony.”  
  
He dabs along his mouth, tells him that it’s okay, and these things happen. It gives him the excuse he needs to gently press his fingers along Tony’s throat. Lower, past his collarbones.  
  
Tony’s cheeks are slightly flushed. He licks his lip.  
  
“Do you want to thank me, Tony?” Steve asks him, hushed.  
  
And Tony nods. “Yes,” he says, voice rough. “Thank you, Sir. For cleaning my mess.”  
  
“Good.” Steve knows this, for certain now: he likes the touch. “More chicken,” he prompts, making sure to include some of the buttery, flaky crust. It gets on Tony’s lips as he chews.  
  
Steve leans forward and perfunctorily brushes it from around his mouth with his fingers. “You’re doing real good, Tony,” he tells him quietly. “Can I tell you the truth? I’m surprised. I didn’t know you’d be so good, right away.”  
  
Tony’s lips twitch into a soft smile. He _does _like being praised, no matter how much he tries to hide it. “I’m well-trained, huh?”  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Steve half-laughs, “those boys in my unit – _they _were well-trained, Tony. Like an oiled machine. You’re a lot more…”  
  
“More?” Tony prompts, slowly, licking his lips free of gravy.  
  
“I don’t think you’d do well under the military system,” is all Steve tells him.  
  
Tony says nothing for a while, chewing the soft carrot and meat Steve’s put in his mouth. Then: “I’m sorry,” he says.  
  
Steve looks up. “For what?”  
  
“If I’m not – what you want.” Tony shuffles in the chair, wrists twisting in the rope. “I asked you to do this, so I’m sorry if…” he trails off, losing his words. “Uh.”  
  
“You know, it’s not uncommon for people like me to take on contracts, Tony. This isn’t unusual, and – you don’t have to be sorry. I wanted to do this, understand? I like helping people.”  
  
“Helping people,” Tony murmurs. “Helping me?”  
  
“Helping you, too,” Steve agrees, feeding him more chicken. “I think, maybe, you – need a superior for certain things, right? Like, helping you go under, because you can’t really do that yourself, or giving you structure and focus. But subordinates do the same for me. You give me a focus, and _you _give me a structure, and you let me – not go under, exactly. But feel good.”  
  
“Not everyone is like you,” Tony says.  
  
“No, they’re not. But that’s what I like. So don’t apologise, Tony, because the truth is, I don’t do well under the military system, either.”  
  
Tony swallows some pastry and celery. Unthinkingly, his tongue licks crumbs from Steve’s fingers.  
  
Steve knows, viscerally, that he would like to have Tony kneeling next to him, one day. He knows he’d like to feed him rich scraps, have him suck the juice from his fingers.  
  
He looks away, as if Tony can see him, or worse, his thoughts. “I figured you’d be nervous,” Steve says, voice low. “I hope this is okay for you.”  
  
Tony nods. “I thought – maybe you’d try to break me in hard.”  
  
“No, Tony,” Steve says softly, “I don’t like that. I prefer gentle.”  
  
“I haven’t had many first,” Tony explains, head tipping slightly to the left like it’s hard to hold it up. He’s sinking in his chair, slightly. “Uh – you know, I’ve only had two. Didn’t know what to expect. Thought, maybe you’re a psycho, or something, I don’t know.”  
  
Steve is glad that Tony feels comfortable enough to talk like this, as much as he likes, without fear of punishment. He thinks it’s as good a time as any to see what he can find out, while he’s relaxed and offering the information willingly.  
  
“What was Stane like?” He asks, gathering flakes of crust on his fingers to feed into Tony’s mouth.  
  
Tony chews, and swallows. There’s a furrow between his brows. “He was… not gentle,” he manages, “but not hard, either.”  
  
He wants to ask, _did you love him, _because twenty years is a long time. But he figures now isn’t the best time to pry. “You did well, in those years,” Steve says evasively. “You built a business, practically. All those – weapons. That kind of schedule, those kinds of pressures. He must have been a rock.”  
  
“He was,” Tony says, murmured, almost – reverent. “He really was. He’d – in a room full of people, he’s the one they would trust. You just wanted to trust him. He’d soak up all that attention without even trying.”  
  
“I’m sorry about what happened. And – I’m so sorry for bringing it up. I hope it hasn’t upset you.”  
  
But Tony is smiling, loosely, unconcerned. “No, it’s fine,” he sighs, content. “No one wants to talk about him, now. They all want to forget he existed.”  
  
Steve thinks that’s sad. He also wonders if it’s because they don’t like seeing that soft, sweet look on Tony’s face, because like him, they’re jealous of ghosts.  
  
He helps Tony finish the rest of the meal, at least, the rest that he can manage. “You got a number for me, Tony?” He asks. “How far down are you?”  
  
Tony shrugs, easy. “Two,” he says, “maybe three.”  
  
“Not bad for a first try.”  
  
Tony laughs. “You gonna, uh – put that on whatever report you write up for my file?”  
  
“Of course,” Steve says, seriously. “It’s important.”  
  
“You’re a stickler, huh?”  
  
“For the rules?”  
  
“Sure,” Tony smiles, lazily. “You love those rules.”  
  
“The protect you,” Steve answers, simply, dabbing his finger into the remaining crust and licking it off his finger. “Good for me, too.”  
  
“I’ve never had a superior who cared much about rules,” Tony sighs, and then, maybe because he’s under, and has lost a little of his usual filter: “I sure hope I don’t regret this.”  
  
Steve pulls up, sombre. “What do you mean, Tony?”  
  
But he’s already moved on, head tipped back, perfectly still. “Mmm,” he hums, vacantly. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Steve asks, conversationally, picking up Tony’s plate and carrying it to the kitchen. “Why not?”  
  
But Tony doesn’t answer this, either. At least, not directly. “You… hear horror stories,” he says, mostly to himself, words quiet, and slurred. “I knew you’d be a safe pair of hands, but still. There are lots of people who seem – good. Until the truth comes out. I think – you know, Steve, I think you give some people an inch of power…”  
  
“I’m glad you trust me, Tony. It means a lot to me.”  
  
“Trust you,” Tony sighs, and then stops talking.  
  
“I thought we could have something to drink,” Steve suggests, cautiously. “I wouldn’t usually, but maybe – a treat, right? Congratulations to us.”  
  
“Sure,” Tony says, warmly.  
  
“I’d like to help you drink it, first, if that’s alright,” Steve asks. “Then we’ll take off the blindfold. You can continue telling me about the, uh – what was it? Best decade of music.”  
  
Tony snorts. He really is quite pleasant when he’s under, all that artifice stripped away. Not entirely – Steve isn’t stupid enough to think Tony isn’t trying to soften him up, in some way. But so far it’s gone far better than expected for a guy as – not ‘difficult’. _Challenging, _would be the word Steve would use. A guy as _challenging _as Tony.  
  
“Here,” Steve says, quietly, holding two glasses. “Sorry. I know this – a lot. Overkill. It’s just, it’s important to – “  
  
“Build physical trust, yeah, I know.”  
  
“You read the book?”  
  
“That you sent me? Sure. Skimmed it last night. Thought I might… prepare.”  
  
“I’m glad you read it,” Steve says, “thank you. You didn’t have to.”  
  
Is Steve imagining that Tony’s smile is slightly tight? “Yeah. Well. Good to know what you’re walking into.”  
  
Maybe, Tony wasn’t sure for certain that Steve would be kind, even if he says he was. Steve understands, or at least, he thinks he does. It must be hard to have so much, and have to put it all into the hands of an almost-stranger.  
  
So he’s gentle, when he cups the back of Tony’s head, thumb lightly stroking his hair. He carefully settles the rim against his bottom lip, guides back his head, tips the scotch towards his mouth. One sip, two sip, and that’s enough. He sets the glass on the table.  
  
Tony licks his lips, savours the taste. “Where’d a guy like you get scotch like that?” He asks.  
  
“A gift,” Steve tells him, pulling at the stays of the blindfold. “From – Fury, maybe? Or Pierce. I don’t know. A congratulations.”  
  
Tony blinks up at him, pupils adjusting to the low light. “They didn’t get me anything.”  
  
“I guess it’s not tradition,” Steve reasons. This close, he can see the makeup on Tony’s face coming loose beneath his eyes, on his cheekbone. “You have bruises under your eyes,” Steve he casually, leaning forward to pour himself another finger. “You’ve tried to cover them up. You said you had a late night?”  
  
“I said I didn’t sleep,” Tony answers, cagey. He sips his drink, holds it between his hands, still cuffed.  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything, except to look at Tony with his eyebrows raised. He thinks it’s clear he would like a response.  
  
“I – would you?” Tony asks, smiling wearily. “How was I supposed to know what I was in for? You hear horror stories, you know, and I… it’s a lot. Of trust, I mean. To put in just one person.”  
  
And when Steve doesn’t answer, he blurts: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again.”  
  
Steve sips the scotch. He thinks, it _is _good, even he can tell. “Why?” He asks.  
  
“Because – “ that little furrow is back between his brows “ – I don’t know. Because I suggested you might be a horror story, which is – which could never be true. Or maybe because I didn’t sleep? I didn’t know that was a rule yet, but I swear – I promise, I mean. Tell me the rules and I’ll… I just didn’t know,” he continues, and now his voice is taking on a panicky, sticky tone, the longer Steve doesn’t respond. “If I had known it was a rule, I would have done it. Not that – not that it’s your fault, either, you’re not wrong to assume I would – “  
  
Steve realises Tony will keep talking until he’s found an answer he thinks Steve wants to hear. He wonders who taught Tony to apologise like that. “No, it’s fine,” he says, gently. He clears his throat. “That makes sense. But I want you to know that… I wouldn’t hurt you. Not now, not ever.”  
  
Tony carefully rests the glass on the table, inches it forward with his fingertips, wrists still bound. “Thanks,” he says, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t believe him.  
  
“I mean it,” Steve presses, “I think – it’s an honour, to be able to do this. To have this kind of power, be trusted with it. It’s my job to make you happy, and – and so I’d never hurt you. I wouldn’t.”  
  
“Sometimes it’s not intentional,” Tony mutters.  
  
“I’ll never punish you unless I know you’re wrong. Not if there’s a single shred of doubt, I swear. Not unless you – “ and Steve tries to smile “ – objectively deserve it, right?”  
  
Tony isn’t looking at him. “Truth is what you want it to be, though,” he murmurs, then looks up. “Could you, uh – “ he holds up his wrists, gestures. “Unless you want me to keep them,” he adds, hurriedly, “I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”  
  
Steve thinks its sad that Tony has come up so quickly, but it isn’t too bad for a first time. “It’s fine,” he says, making sure to smile in a way that seems warm so Tony doesn’t think he’s lying again. “That enough for you for one night?”  
  
Tony shuts his eyes while Steve gently winds the rope from off his wrists. “If it’s enough for you,” he counters, diplomatically.  
  
Steve sighs. He figures, one day they might actually be close enough that Tony won’t need to feed him politic, quasi-answers.  
  
“Do you want me to stay?” Tony asks. He’s not looking at Steve directly; his eyes are staring past him, at a spot on the wall. “You can – order me to stay. Sir,” he adds, stiffly.  
  
And Steve gets it, then. Steve could make him stay, if he wanted – it’s not in their contract, not really, he’s not supposed to have those kinds of powers. But he could lie, and say that he believed it was in Tony’s best interest, or that Tony deserved a reprimand. He could say anything, no one would check. No one would take Tony’s side.  
  
So, he gets it. No matter how good, or kind, or patient he is, Tony will not trust him. Not until he’s proved himself.  
  
“You’re free to go, always,” Steve tells him. “Always, Tony. No matter what.”  
  
Tony smiles, still staring through him, false. “Sure,” he says, clearly not believing it. “This was, uh – good,” he nods, standing. “This was real good of you, Steve. And the food was great, you give Natasha my thanks, right?”  
  
“Sure,” Steve agrees, and hopes it isn’t obvious how bitterly disappointed he is that he couldn’t convince Tony to stay. With time, maybe.  
  
From the window, he watches Tony flag down a taxi. It’s still raining, and he covers his head with the back of his coat. They’re contracted, now. Steve tries not to poke at the strangeness of that – he’s _contracted _to Tony Stark. He owns him.  
  
He’d never owned anyone before. Before the war – who would have him? He was young, and he didn’t exactly _look _the part. After, he had been too busy. But he’d known he had it in him, the superior gene, the preference, the personality, whatever it is scientists are calling it these days. He’d known when his subordinates – _his, _because they were his, they certainly weren’t anyone else’s – needed care, and he’d taken care of them as needed.  
  
Maybe, that’s it. Maybe that’s why he finds himself so drawn to Tony, to all that – power, balled up and vibrating beneath his skin. He’s a strong man, a stubborn man. He’d make an excellent – maybe not soldier, exactly. But he’s brave, and bold. Steve recognises it in him, the same way he had recognised it in his men. The need to submit, the struggle for it. When someone is that clever, or strong, to earn the subservience –  
  
Steve would like to earn Tony’s subservience. He’d tried to make it good for him tonight, but there will be other nights. He’d like Tony to lose that worried, tense look around his eyes, and fill out the jut of his collarbones. _Fuck, _he thinks, fuck, _fuck, _he just wants someone to take care of, and be cared for in return.  
  
Here’s the thing: Steve is lonely. He knows this. And he thinks, maybe, Tony might be lonely too.  
  
When Tony gets into the taxi, Steve holds up a hand, in silent goodbye. Tony doesn’t see, which is fine. Steve wouldn’t expect him to.  
  
He heats himself up some of the leftovers from Natasha’s meal, sits in front of his TV. It’s the news. They haven’t heard about him and Tony, yet, but he doesn’t doubt they will. There’s supposed to be a gala next week that Steve grudgingly accepted an invite to. Maybe then.  
  
He eats his dinner. When he’s finished, he washes off the plate. He showers, and doesn’t think of anything much in particular. He climbs into bed. The clock on his bedside table shows the time, 21:00 hours. Early, for most people, but Steve doesn’t have much else to do but sleep.  
  
He counts down numbers in his head. There’s a chill creeping over him, the way it always does when he goes to bed. He knows, by the time he reaches 0, he’ll be asleep. The chill is like ice. Steve doesn’t think about dying, he focuses on the numbers. 31, 30, 29, 28. He thinks about the look of Tony’s face when Steve touched him. He never thought Tony would go under so fast, just on touch. He’d thought a guy like Tony would have lots of people willing to touch him.  
  
He thinks, he’d seen it in Tony’s face, that’s why. The slight surprise, then pleasure, at someone giving you what you want. Something you don’t say, due to shame, or fear. Yeah, he’s seen it in himself, before. Not the look, just the feeling. To have a desire fulfilled, and be so scared that someone will take it away. Or worse: that they’ll throw it back in your face.  
  
He wonders why Tony fears that. He wonders who taught Tony to apologise so desperately. He wonders – not much else, before like clockwork, he’s sleeping.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is something people are interested in? The chapters take a little longer because there's more detail than I usually write, uno. But yeah, please tell me your thoughts about how Steve's character seems in particular, and also what Tony might be thinking.


	3. Chapter 3

He shuts his eyes against the cool air of the carrier. Steve is dirty, caked with mud and blood and sweat. They didn’t shower at the airbase – Steve had suggested it to them all, told them they could all take the night to recover. But the STRIKE team could read the look on his face, the tight bunched up lines of his shoulders. They hadn’t made him stay. They’d all flown out on the first transport back.  
  
They’d gone out on request of the government, working to overthrow some of the small paramilitary groups that have sprung up along the Sudanese border. Last minute, mostly routine – all part of some bullshit good relations initiative sponsored from someone above, who doesn’t know anything about Steve’s men, or the people they went to ‘save’. Were only meant to have been gone three days, basic consultancy, but they had -- run into trouble. Rumlow had explained to him that lots of these groups had old Stark weapons from when there had been double-dealing; apparently, they’re now a hot commodity, sold and re-sold on the black market, traded between dealers.  
  
And, they had found the motherlode. And, all these weapons, they had to be catalogued, and stripped for parts. And, the kind of men to deal in black-market weaponry are not the kind to do that work themselves. So, there had been children. Children, and subordinates, with vacant eyes and permanently stooped shoulders from years of work.  
  
After, there had been nothing.  
  
Steve frowns. Doesn’t matter. He’s not thinking about it, what’s the worth thinking about it. He makes himself wonder, instead, if Tony enjoyed the task he set him in lieu of their Friday night session. He hadn’t wanted to miss one, so soon into their partnership, but needs must. He had figured Tony would like it, that it would keep him busy, scratch an itch. He thinks, after, he and Tony can talk about the history in the files he’s made him sort, all the old records from the start of SHIELD up to the 1970s.  
  
He thinks, very hard, about Tony. He thinks about his fingers, and his fluffy hair, and the crispness of his collar the night Steve had fed him with his own hands. He thinks about going home, to a warm bed and a hot bath and whatever meal he thinks Tony will have made. He thinks so hard that he grips the straps holding him into his seat, knuckles turning white, breathing hard, measured. In, one two three, out, one two three. Think about anything else, everything. Just not that. Just not now.  
  
“Cap,” Rumlow interrupts, voice low. He jerks his chin. “You okay?”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything. Carefully, he relaxes each finger. He rolls his neck, hears his back crack satisfyingly. Rumlow nods. Steve appreciates it – these men are good men. They take care of each other.  
  
Steve hadn’t seen anything about double-dealing in Tony’s file, and he doubts Fury would have him on the team if he was a genuine criminal, but he thinks he should probably ask Tony about it, just in case. He wonders how he’s gotten on with the task Steve has set him for Friday evening, to go through the trove of old files dumped in his apartment by Coulson after he got out of ice. Old mission reports and photos, accumulating over the years as people found more to add to the collection.  
  
He hasn’t had the heart to look through it. Memories, that is. But he likes to think about it, Tony, working through Steve’s history. If he thinks about Tony, he won’t really need to think about the weapons stocked in boxes, or the subordinate man with a brand on his cheek, or the bodies of children Steve had wanted to bury. He knows those children were likely left to rot under the sun, burnt, parts of them missing. At best, in an unmarked grave in sand.  
  
So sure, he’s looking forward to having someone at home. Someone who might even look forward to him. He’s going to think about Tony. He’s not going to think about work – no use. Think about Tony. Think about warm bed, warm bath, warm food.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rumlow says, into the silence. The other men are sleeping, or pretending to be; if the pilot hears, he doesn’t let on. “Always goes the same way. Those dirty fucks had no intention of ever letting those kids go free, they were the collateral from the start.”  
  
Steve sniffs. “Yeah,” he agrees, not believing him. He drags a sleeve crusted with someone elses blood across his face. “Kinda figure – they were only collateral because we were there in the first place.”  
  
Rumlow shrugs. “Maybe so,” he says, “but that’s – that’s fucking circular thinking, Cap. Round and round we go, what’s the point? It happens everywhere. We can’t stop because they’ve figured out what to use against us.”  
  
There had been a man, eyes cloudy with cataracts but no older than forty. Steve had figured he was subordinate from the way he’d kept himself low, always, head down, shoulders bent, even as they were trying to evacuate the workshop. He’d been underground so long he’d forgotten what sunlight looked like. He’d obeyed their orders without fear, but absently, unthinkingly. When Rollins had raised his voice to tell them to get down, he had tucked himself into a ball on the floor, practiced. And his fingertips were bloody. And now, while Steve is still thinking about it, maybe it’s better he’s gone. Because there was no life for him in the world, after that, and he’d been trained only to take orders, never to _live _–  
  
“Hey,” Rumlow says, “you’ve got something to look forward to, right?”  
  
Steve frowns at him. He realises, Rumlow is joking. “Right,” he tries to smile.  
  
“Maybe Stark’ll have gone the whole nine miles, huh? Foot rub, bubble bath, pot-roast…”  
  
“He’s not really the type.”  
  
“I figured,” Rumlow laughs. “But it’s still good, right? He’s still…”  
  
This is the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about with your superior work colleagues. Locker-room talk. Steve can indulge it, usually. Right now, he’s not in the mood.  
  
“I haven’t seen him much,” he admits. “We’re meant to meet on Fridays. Haven’t seen him last week.”  
  
“Well, there’s time for that to grow.” Rumlow jerks his chin, leans forward slightly. “You, uh – you know. We were wondering… what he’s like. A guy like Stark. Is it true he’s got a ring in his cock?”  
  
“It’s not that kind of contract,” Steve says shortly.  
  
Rumlow snorts. “Right,” he says, and winks. “Because you know – that kind of information.” He bites his bottom lip lasciviously. “A guy like Stark,” he repeats, like that means something, “if I found out he was the kind of hardliner to pierce himself there – “  
  
“He’s not,” Steve says abruptly. “He’s not submissive at all.” He doesn’t know why he feels so compelled to defend Tony’s honour; there’s nothing wrong with being submissive in bed, if that’s the kind of subordinate you are, but the way Rumlow says it makes it sound as if it would be especially delightful if Tony was submissive in bed, like it’s something to be embarrassed about, like Steve should _want _to embarrass him.  
  
Rumlow shrugs. “Hey, I get it,” he says. “Good for you, keeping it to your chest.”  
  
Steve decides he would like to push his fist through Rumlow’s chest, but he buries the sudden violent thought. Rumlow is just making conversation; these are normal things to discuss, he’s trying to lighten the mood, and Steve needs to calm down. He needs to tip back his head, and breathe. He needs to think about Tony, and his warm bed, and forget the bodies buried in sand.  
  
  
He’s supposed to debrief immediately but he checks himself out of medical before they can even check him over.  
  
Doctor Samson calls him as he’s getting into a transport to the tower. “Captain,” he says, in that patient, even voice. “You’ll be exhausted. And we need to have a run-down about what happened out there. I can’t in good faith let you go home.”  
  
Steve tells him something about needing the familiar environment, which is a lie, because he’s only been living in the tower for a few days. He tells him that he has an appointment with his subordinate, only his second, and he can’t afford to miss it.  
  
“That may be,” the doc continues, “but I’m sure Mr Stark will understand. At the very least, you need to talk – “  
  
Steve hangs up. He does not need to talk. There are many things he needs, and talking has never helped.  
  
  
There’s no hot meal waiting when Steve enters his quarters, still strewn with boxes unpacked. No bluesy music, or dimmed lights. It’s dark, and slightly cold, as if someone has not turned on the heat. Steve leaves his bag on the kitchen counter.  
  
He’d left the files in his office for Tony to sort. But Tony hasn’t. Tony is sitting in Steve’s armchair, screwdriver in hand, fiddling with a – transistor radio by the light of a lamp. He doesn’t look up when Steve enters. He doesn’t say a word.  
  
Steve listlessly picks up one of the files, untouched – he thumbs through, absently. “Why didn’t you do what I asked?”  
  
Tony doesn’t say anything. He just carefully twists the wire.  
  
“Tony,” Steve says again, making his voice dominant, authoritative. “Why didn’t you do what I asked?”  
  
Tony doesn’t answer right away. He fiddles the receiver in his hands for a while, then sniffs. His sinuses sound blocked. “You going to punish me?” He asks, voice croaky but level, rubbing his nose.  
  
“Why – “ Steve feels lost for words, “why didn’t you do the task?”  
  
Tony shrugs. “Alright then,” he says, and turns back to his toy.  
  
“Look at me,” Steve demands.  
  
Tony doesn’t look up.  
  
“Tony,” he tries again, at a loss. “I said, look at me.”  
  
His shoulders are tight, stooped over the radio as they are. Steve lets his bag thump against the floor.  
  
“Why didn’t you do what I asked you to do?” He says, confused. “Tony. Did you not like it?”  
  
Tony rolls his head up, eyes shut, mouth tight. “Did I not _like _it?” He drawls, venomously. “Like it fucking matters, Rogers.”  
  
Steve stares. He doesn’t know what to do.  
  
“You could have – could have told me to lick every inch of this floor with my tongue while you were gone, and it wouldn’t fucking _matter. _So don’t act like whether I liked it – like it has anything to do with it. Because it doesn’t.”  
  
Steve wants to ask, did _he _ever make you do that? Instead, he just shuffles on his feet. “But, you liked it last week – “  
  
“Oh, boo hoo,” Tony scorns him, rolling his eyes. “’_You liked it last week,’” _he mocks. “You think I have a fucking choice, Rogers? I was _pretending. _Faking, understand?” And when Steve doesn’t reply, he sneers. “I was lying to you. Jesus fucking Christ, you think you’re that special? I had a superior for twenty years and he was double the man you were.”  
  
And then, he turns back to his radio.  
  
Steve doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it. What happened? He looks over his shoulder, at the tossed and scattered sheets on the table. He thought it would be easy. He thought it might be fun.  
  
He hates himself for being so weak, in this moment, his first test. Murray had warned him: he can be a thankless task.  
  
Maybe, he should set the boundary, right now. Show Tony what happens when he so flagrantly disobeys. It wouldn’t be a harsh punishment – seven swats on the ass, bent over his lap so he learns some damn humility. Steve would – would like to see that, huh, Tony with his cheeks all red and pants around his ankles, apologising with that sneering mouth, lesson learned.  
  
He’s so fucking tired. He’s been working, three nights, and had thought – he’d come home, and at the very least have someone happy to see him. Tony would want him. For the first time in – no. But just – to have one person, be happy he was there. He was sure of it. He was so sure of it, that he took it for granted, and now Tony’s ruined it, that happy feeling. In that moment, briefly, something so dark and thick inside him _hates _him for it. Wants to punish him for it, in the worst ways he can think.  
  
And the feeling passes, as quickly as it comes, so fleeting you might doubt it was there at all. Steve’s head clears. He’s tired. Whatever decision he makes tonight won’t be the right one, and besides, he doesn’t even know _why_ Tony’s acting the way he’s acting. There could be a reason, a good and valid one, and Steve will not punish a man for a good and valid response.  
  
He steps forward. Tony keeps working, but he can tell he’s sensing him, watching and listening closely. His shoulders curl inward slightly, protecting.  
  
Steve raises his hand. He squeezes Tony’s shoulder, once. He flinches at the touch.  
  
He lets his thumb stroke there. “Fine,” he says, softly. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. You’re going to tell me what happened here, and what went wrong.” He pulls back. “I’m going to get some rest. I want you to, too.”  
  
Tony doesn’t react, and then he does. He throws the radio at the wall with a satisfying crunch, all those delicate wires and neat screws spilling like guts on the floor.  
  
Steve doesn’t rise to it. “Well okay then,” he continues, gently, “you can clean that up, and then – “  
  
Tony twists, slaps Steve’s hand away, rabid. “What is the _matter _with you?” He spits, eyes wild, pupils blown. This close, Steve can see they’re red. “Why are you so damn fucking _good? _What do you want? Where does it end, huh? When’s the buck stop?!”  
  
Steve frowns. “You’re trying to provoke me,” he realises.  
  
“You’re so fucking stupid,” Tony mutters in disgust, twisting away. “Trust me, all the luck in the world to be landed with the stupidest Captain this side of the Atlantic.”  
  
Steve stands there, dumbly. He’s so tired. He is so, fucking, tired.  
  
He shuts his eyes. “I’m,” he says, stiffly, “going to go to sleep. I hope you feel better in the morning, Tony.”  
  
“Fucking pathetic,” Tony is muttering, when his back is turned. “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?”  
  
Steve thinks he’s probably right, although for the wrong reasons. Tony doesn’t know that Steve just let thirty-two children die, but he seems to have intuitively picked up that Steve is a pretty wretched person all the same. Which is fine. Steve’s just surprised it took him this long.  
  
In the elevator, he checks his phone. Doc Samson, again. He turns off his phone.  
  
He eats four-day-old takeout from the carton, downs it with milk from the bottle. It’s not enough. He’s starving, but right now, his exhaustion trumps it all. He doesn’t bother to shower. He kicks off his shoes and his takes off his belt and then collapses onto the bed, unmade from when he got the call-out days ago.  
  
Steve stares at the ceiling. In the corner of his eye, he sees the willowy subordinate man, who’s fingertips had been bloody from the way he’d stripped weapons, all day, every day. He turns his head in the dark; the man is gone. Steve thinks about the brand on his cheek, and about the children who had been alive 24-hours ago. It’s fine, though. He shuts his eyes. He sees Tony, vacant, burnt under the sun. He imagines him in that cave, stripping weapons for parts. And predictably, his mind carries him to sleep soon after.  
  
  
His dreams are like smears. Bucky with bloody fingertips, clawing at dirt. Steve asks him, what are you doing, Buck? Let’s go home.  
  
But he doesn’t stop. He buries Steve beneath the sand.  
  
  
He stares at his ceiling for a long while after waking. His thoughts are: that he’s still so tired. There’s a subordinate somewhere in this building who is under his duty of care. He needs to find him. He needs to help him, and he wants to.  
  
But it’s hard, this morning.  
  
He has to crawl out of bed, going through the motions of brushing teeth and washing face and showering. The thought of Tony is like a pit in his stomach. He doesn’t know if he can face it, or if he wants to face it. He’s not sure what he did so wrong, already, that Tony could be so disrespectful.  
  
Maybe, it’s not anything he did. Maybe Tony’s playing difficult, maybe Tony had a rough night last night, too. Murray said, he’s a thankless task. If their positions were reversed, Steve would probably try to push boundaries too; he’d want to know where he stood, how far his superior would go to keep him in line.  
  
Steve can’t let himself feel this way every time Tony is a little harsh. He can’t let his words upset him, even if they are –  
  
Tough.  
  
He can’t wallow. The most important thing is never to wallow. His mom taught him that. And if he spent time wallowing, where would he be?  
  
So he resolves himself. He’ll find Tony, they’ll eat dinner. He’ll make things right. Tony chose him for a reason, right? Steve thinks, there must be some part of him, even a small part of him, that wants his help.  
  
He passes the study on the way to his kitchen. The door is still open.  
  
Tony is sitting, passed out, at the table. His head is pillowed on his arms, he’s snoring fitfully. Steve almost doesn’t want to wake him, but all the scattered files have been sorted, neat and marked with pen, into chronological order. Steve stares. Tony has – done it. He did it. What Steve asked, he actually _did _it.  
  
There’s a plate of breakfast food near his head, meaning he would have only fallen asleep recently. Lightly, Steve pokes his chair with his foot.  
  
Tony scrambles up, pushing back the chair hastily, brushing his hair flat on his head with his palms. “Steve, I – God. Sorry. I made you breakfast, I think. Then I must have – fallen asleep.”  
  
He gestures at the depressing burnt toast, with a single hardboiled egg still covered in shell sitting loose on the table. There’s no spoon. The butter on the toast is congealed and cold.  
  
“You didn’t need to make me breakfast,” Steve tells him, because it feels like a safe bet. “I told you to get some sleep.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, still rubbing his hand against his head. “You did. I figured, if I couldn’t sleep, I should do what you told me to do. I mean, what you originally told me to do.”  
  
And maybe, it’s because Tony needs to hear it, or maybe it’s because his own mood is fucking foul, he says (voice sharp, a _command), _“When I tell you to do something, I’m not leaving room for a judgement call. You do what I say, understand?”  
  
Tony stares at him. When Steve tears his eyes away from the boxes on the table, meets his eyes directly, he breaks gaze, looks past him. Swallows. “Sure,” he mutters, nodding, “that’s – okay. I totally get that. I completely understand, Sir, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t call me Sir,” Steve orders, pulling a box towards him. He picks up a file; Tony has written, _1965 _in neat block print. Inside are some loose-leaf photographs, and mission files.  
  
“I did it by year,” he blurts, compulsively, “I did it by – look, here.” He reaches forward, to show Steve how he’s completed his task. “I figured, at least this way you’d know what you were looking for, rather than having to scramble for years in all the random crap, you know?”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t disparage, he doesn’t give praise. He can feel Tony, tense beside him, thrumming with a nervous energy. Coiled like he’s ready to break loose.  
  
“You didn’t sleep.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tony blurts again, “I just figured – “  
  
“Don’t figure,” Steve says, slamming the file closed. He feels cruel. He can sense Tony draining away, a mixture of exhaustion and panic. “I don’t want you to figure. Sometimes, you don’t need to think, you just need to obey. Give me your hand,” he orders, looking up.  
  
He can see Tony swallow the question, _why, what for, will it hurt, _and he’s annoyed at himself. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he mutters, brusquely folding up the cuff of his shirt up to his elbow.  
  
“I’m left-handed,” Tony tells him, not meeting his eyes. “If you’re going to – please. Just do the right-hand.”  
  
Steve flicks his eyes upwards. “Tony,” he says, levelly. “What did I just say?”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “Uh,” he shuts his eyes, voice slightly thick, “that you wouldn’t hurt me.”  
  
“Okay. So, believe that.”  
  
Gently, now, Steve turns Tony’s hand over so his palm is facing upwards. He brushes it lightly with the pads of his fingers, frowning. “I don’t understand,” he starts, lightly digging his thumb against the fat of Tony’s hand, “why you didn’t do what I asked.”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking,” Tony tells him.  
  
“Mmm,” Steve agrees. “What weren’t you thinking about?”  
  
Steve figures, the trick with Tony is to not be direct. He doesn’t like directness. But you can coax these things out of him, probably, with enough patience.  
  
Tony relaxes a little under Steve’s ministrations, leaning his hip against the table. “Nothing, I – “ he shakes his head. “I promise, nothing. I’m just shitty, alright? Ask anyone, they’ll all tell you.”  
  
Steve works his fingers up Tony’s arm. He watches his face, closely, as he lightly scratches his nails against the soft skin there. Tony’s forearms are broad, and strong; Steve likes that, the masculinity of it. He’s not sure why. It feels reassuring.  
  
He doesn’t reply, just waits for Tony to talk himself out. “I thought – maybe I was being petty, or maybe… you know, some of that stuff was…” he casts his eyes over the neat boxes, frowning. “I don’t know, a trip down memory lane?” He tries to smile, but Steve just keeps on stroking, up and down.  
  
“Uh,” Tony manages, “if you keep that up, I’m not going to – I mean, I’m not gonna…”  
  
Steve flicks his gaze upwards. Tony’s pupils are expanded slightly. Steve doesn’t say, _you’re so susceptible to touch, did you know that? _Because he thinks it’s the only thing he has against him, that he can use consistently, that is always effective. Tony doesn’t even realise how much he loves the touch, how starved he is for it.  
  
“Look, could I – “ Tony rubs his hand over his face, drained, “ – I know I’ve already taken a mile, but I’m not… if I could just get some sleep. I don’t know.”  
  
Steve looks at the files, neatly stacked in the boxes, alphabetical order. He could make Tony wait while he inspected them, each and every one.  
  
He doesn’t know what happened last night. He doesn’t know why. He’d let Tony go to sleep, then, and Tony had stayed up and finished Steve’s task. He still doesn’t know why he didn’t just do it in the first place, or why he’d looked so ill, or why he changed his mind to do as he was told.  
  
But none of it points to someone in perfect control of their actions, making a conscious decision to disobey. Steve is so confused, he doesn’t know where to start. He just knows, maybe Tony needs some sleep. He already punished himself, working through the night.  
  
He drops Tony’s hand. “Give me that paper,” he orders, “pen, too.” He rips off the sheet, scribbles down Tony’s commands. “Bed,” he orders, sternly, “at least eight hours, understand? When you wake up, I want you to shower. You can have a snack, but nothing more, because tonight you’re going to eat with me, and we’re going to talk.”  
  
Tony is nodding, nervously. He accepts the folded up page. “You want me to cook?”  
  
“Did I ask you to?”  
  
Tony stares at him like it’s a trick question, and it occurs to Steve that maybe Tony doesn’t realise yet that Steve doesn’t expect him to read between lines, that he only ever needs to do what he’s explicitly asked to do.  
  
“You – no?” Tony tries, in that voice he uses when he’s looking to give you the right answer.  
  
“If I want you to do something,” Steve tells him, voice gentler, “I’ll tell you. You don’t need to cook.” He casts a side-eye at Tony’s breakfast attempt. “You are not a good cook, Tony.”  
  
Tony’s grin is slightly spacey, but fairly genuine. “Right,” he agrees, “that’s fair. Okay. Thank you. For being fair.”  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything, except to jerk his chin in dismissal. He pulls another box towards himself, sits in Tony’s chair, flips through. He wonders, what about the trip down memory lane upset Tony? There’s so much about him he doesn’t know, so many sticky triggers.  
  
He pulls out a file at random, flips it open. On the first page, a report from 1972, something scientific Steve doesn’t want to read. But there’s a picture, stapled against the page – and Steve realises why Tony feels so familiar.  
  
Bucky wasn’t subordinate, but when he came back from the camp, he had acted it. He’s read all about it now, you have people who can be both. People used to say Steve was both, even though they meant it mockingly, because even though all his tests turned back superior to the nth degree and he has a protective streak one-hundred-miles long, he was small, and skinny, and liked to draw.  
  
No one ever doubted Bucky was superior. Before they were tested, Steve had once overheard his mom telling Mrs Barnes that if Steve did test subordinate, it was so good that he and Buck had each other already. Such a natural pair. And Steve had almost been disappointed when he got his test back telling him the truth, before he realised that being a subordinate means more than just getting to live with your best friend. But in that childlike way… he had been disappointed, maybe.  
  
No one doubted he was superior after the serum. If anything, it only heightened what was already there – the fucking pathetic, desperate urge to soothe and praise, to have someone smile, safe and content because of something you’ve done for them. Bucky didn’t get so lucky. He came back, and he threw beer bottles at walls, and screamed at people in line when they didn’t move fast enough and sometimes, awfully, sobbed loudly and unstopping in his barracks until Steve had to have him removed, moved in with him personally so the other men could get some rest and the rumours would stop.  
  
So he didn’t plan it, or start it on purpose. Bucky had a bad turn one night, after a three-day raid on a camp in Poland. He’d struck out in his sleep, confused, grappling with Steve on the ground until Steve could pin him down, firm. And when he was pinned down, Steve cuffed him. They played a game. He had Bucky tell him what he could feel, and what he could smell, and finally, name everything he could see.  
  
They played that game many nights, with Bucky’s hand tied safely in front of him, pillow under his head. Steve would ask, _what do you see. _Bucky would say, _ceiling, _his voice drowsy, slow. Under. He never told anyone that Bucky had changed designation, or rather, that he was somehow both superior and subordinate at the same time. They kept it to themselves, because that’s what you did back then.  
  
Of course, then Bucky died.  
  
But the point is, Steve can recognise it in Tony. The craving for a submission he’s afraid of. Unlike Bucky, there’s no stigma attached for Tony – but still, he seems afraid of it, giving himself over. Steve recognises it so sharply, and strongly, that for a moment the clarity of it nearly knocks him over; it all makes sense.  
  
Tony must hate what he is. Which is why he paid a guy like Murray to keep out of his business, and why he chose Steve because he figures he’s a soft-touch. He’s terrified, not of the submission, but the control. And why wouldn’t he be? He has far, far more to lose than the average subordinate.  
  
Steve traces the photo with his fingers. They feel the same, Tony and Bucky. And even though Steve’s never seen Tony having a subordinate meltdown, he feels like yesterday night was close enough, and he feels like he understands him more for seeing it.  
  
Steve carries the boxes back up to his quarters, lines them up on the wall of his bedroom. Doc Samson has messaged him again, he has three missed calls, and two voicemails. He ignores them.  
  
He was supposed to finish moving in this weekend. Instead, he lies face-down on his couch, and passes out.  
  
  
Mid-afternoon. The winter light is hazy. Steve’s head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton; dehydration. But he’s waking from an unsettling dream, and he feels like he has ants under his skin.  
  
_Tony, _he thinks.  
  
This is wrong. He’s Tony’s superior, but they’re not close, and this could be a violation of privacy. Well within his rights, but still – a violation. He has the codes for Tony’s penthouse, he’s allowed full access whenever he wants, under the terms of their contract. He hadn’t planned on using it.  
  
He isn’t evil. He just needs to check. _Tony, _he thinks again. In the elevator, he catches a glimpse of the subordinate man with the brand on his cheek, gaunt. He rubs his eyes, and he leaves.  
  
But Tony is asleep, just like he said he would be. He’s still wearing his button down, but he’s replaced his belt and pants with sweats. He’s spread out on the bed like a star, back rising and falling gently, his breath soft and snoring slightly. Perfectly fine. Steve can barely remember his dream, now, other than the sick, queasy feeling he’d had when he’d woken.  
  
Gently, he lets his fingers rest on the back of Tony’s head. He doesn’t even stir.  
  
_You’re fucking pathetic, you know that Rogers?_  
  
The voice in his head sounds like him.  
  
  
He orders sushi, because Tony’s file says he likes that.  
  
It’s okay. They make small-talk about a congressman from Texas who won’t pay child-support and climate change and their favourite kinds of fish. Steve likes salmon. Tony likes tuna.  
  
“I was going to ask,” Steve says, forcedly casual and leaning over to grab one of the beers, “did you ever book that doctor’s appointment? You know, your check-up.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Tony admits, “but I will. Jarvis, set a reminder for me, or – hey, see if you can book it yourself, okay?”  
  
Steve smiles at him, warmly. “Thanks, Tony. It’s just for peace of mind.”  
  
“And my record.”  
  
“You know I love records.”  
  
Tony snorts. Steve feels warm inside, like the ice that’s been in his chest since Sudan is being sluiced in hot cocoa. Tony’s smile is infectious, when it’s a genuine smile.  
  
“Those guys you work with,” Tony asks, picking at his nigiri, “what are they like? I haven’t heard much.”  
  
“You tried searching them?”  
  
“Obviously. I keep tabs on all of you. You most of all, but – all of you.”  
  
Steve shrugs. “They’re pretty normal guys, I guess. I mean, by today’s standard, right? They work, most of them have girlfriends. What’s to know.”  
  
“Subordinates?” Tony presses.  
  
“It’s not the kind of lifestyle that gets you allocated a sub,” Steve admits. “I guess I’m the exception.”  
  
“You certainly are,” Tony notes, eyebrows slightly raised, and Steve wonders what the look on his face means. “None of their girlfriends are…?”  
  
“Not that I know.”  
  
Tony shrugs. “That’s not so unusual these days, I guess.”  
  
Right, maybe. It used to common for men to marry their subordinate wives. Not so much, now. Now, men and women have contracts, and it’s the gay men who get married. Which is fine, obviously – it’s just interesting, Steve figures.  
  
“I was, uh,” Steve coughs, slightly, dabbing his mouth to give his hands something to do. “About last night,” he starts.  
  
“I can explain,” Tony interrupts him, “it wasn’t you. I promise it wasn’t you, or anything you did, and I’m sorry. That I acted like an idiot. Like an idiot in grade school, actually, I don’t usually – lash out, you know?”  
  
“So it wasn’t… anything I did,” Steve asks, slowly. “It wasn’t the task, was it? Because I just wanted you to have something – “  
  
“No, Steve, not – not the task. The task was fun. Uh, it would have been. If I wasn’t half-asleep and dropping.”  
  
Steve starts. “You – you were dropping?”  
  
“Sure,” Tony says evasively, picking at ginger with his chopsticks to avoid meeting Steve’s eyes. “Just to give you a taste,” he laughs, humorlessly.  
  
“Why were you dropping?”  
  
Tony looks up, head still bowed, slightly. It’s fairly submissive body language, which means he’s probably worried Steve won’t like what comes next. “It’s because I… see someone. Or, I’m seeing someone.”  
  
Steve feels like he’s been punched in the gut, and he doesn’t know why. There’s no romance clause in their contract. Their relationship is, legally, strictly non-sexual; Steve could get _arrested _for even trying to… and besides, there’s a large, purposeful, grey area where Tony’s allowed to act with pretty much impunity. He can see who he wants. Unless it’s damaging him in some way, Steve really can’t do anything to stop him.  
  
And he wouldn’t want. _Doesn’t _want to, he should say. It’s not his business. He’s glad if there’s someone who makes Tony happy. He’s surprised Tony didn’t go to that person when he needed someone to take over his contract.  
  
“Seeing someone, uh,” Steve scratches the back of his head, pretends to be picking out a slice of sashimi, “in what capacity?”  
  
“We see each other.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Mostly – mostly for sex,” Tony tells him, bluntly. And if Steve’s cheeks flush, well fuck him, because he shouldn’t have signed up for this if he wasn’t willing to have those conversations.  
  
“Who is he?” Steve tries. “Someone I know?”  
  
“You might know him,” Tony says, and then – doesn’t elaborate.  
  
“Was he with you? Last night?”  
  
“He doesn’t come here. But there’s an – we have places we go,” he explains, and Steve tries not to feel bad that Tony doesn’t even feel he can share _where _they go.  
  
“He, uh, busy or something?” Steve suggests, carefully. He pretends he’s trying to dab wasabi on his rice. “I mean, if you were dropping like that…”  
  
“Yes. He was busy.”  
  
A sore spot, then. “He often busy? I mean, when it comes to… taking care of you, rather than…”  
  
“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” Tony says, voice cold. Steve thinks, last week, Tony had had bruises under his eyes, and he’d covered them with make-up.  
  
“Why didn’t you ask him to contract you?”’  
  
“I was trying to be good,” Tony says shortly, instead, “letting you know. I’m doing a courtesy. It’s not really a topic for discussion,” he dismisses.  
  
“Well alright then, “Steve relents, if only because he doesn’t want to upset the newly-won peace. “If you ever – need someone, to bring you up… you know it’s what I’m here for.”  
  
“Right,” Tony agrees, pushing his food around his plate. Steve can visibly see him decide to roll back his shoulder, force a smile, go for the charm offensive. “Hey,” he says, “now that we’ve discussed my personal life, do you think we could discuss yours?”  
  
“Sure.” Steve is happy to. He’s glad Tony is interested.  
  
“I got a call,” Tony starts. “From – Doctor Samson. At SHIELD.”  
  
Steve, very carefully, doesn’t react. He dips his tuna into the soy. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “He said, he had been trying to get a hold of you. That you needed to debrief but you never checked in, and you didn’t see medical after – “  
  
“Well, I had other priorities. I knew you were at home. I didn’t want to miss our… thought it would be good if I came back,” Steve tries to lie. He puts the tuna in his mouth to avoid talking, chews slowly.  
  
But Tony’s pretty good at this. He waits until Steve swallows.  
  
“You wanted to come back, for me?” Tony presses.  
  
“It was only our second, I figured…” Steve hears himself trailing off. The air is awkward, now, tense, like it’s ready to snap.  
  
Tony clears his throat, again. “Doctor Samson said it was urgent. That if you didn’t debrief – “  
  
“Why did he call you?” Steve asks, abruptly. “I didn’t realise it was your business.”  
  
“Actually, it is,” Tony says guardedly. “It’s in the contract. I have access to your psychiatric records.”  
  
“I thought that meant, you can _see _them. Not that you become my doctors first point of call – “  
  
“If there’s something wrong,” Tony continues, steadily, “if you’re not thinking right, or if… it’s important that I’m able to know, and that your doctor is able to tell me. It’s about protection, okay? You _own _me. If you’re not in your right mind – “  
  
“Is that what he said? That I wasn’t in my right mind?”  
  
“No! He just said that it was a rough mission, that you needed to debrief. He explicitly said that you _weren’t _a threat, just that – you needed help, okay? That’s all, Steve. I’m sorry. He just wanted me to ask.”  
  
Steve doesn’t like that. He doesn’t care if Tony has access to the information – fine, fair enough, it’s a common-sense precaution and he’s glad Tony has it in the contract. But he doesn’t want to hear that Doctor Samson, or anyone else for that matter, thinks they can get to him _through _Tony. Because that’s not right. He’s not going to stand for that. He’s not going to have his own privacy undermined, and extra stress put on his subordinate –  
  
“Steve,” Tony says, stiffly, “I’m sorry if – “  
  
“Did he tell you why?” Steve demands, snapping.  
  
Tony stares. “Tell me why?”  
  
“Why the mission was rough. What happened, why it went wrong.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “No, no of course not. That’s confidential. It’s – Steve, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I need to learn to read a room, right?” He tries to laugh. “Steve,” he says again, leaning forward to grip his arm.  
  
Steve, carefully, so fucking carefully, pulls his hand away. He wants to shake Stark off. He wants to shake him and shake him and shake him until his fucking teeth rattle in his skull.  
  
No, fuck, he doesn’t. Stark – Tony isn’t his enemy. He’s getting his wires all crossed up in his head again. “They had weapons,” Steve explains, because he thinks if he does, it’ll be like lancing a wound. He thinks, maybe Tony will understand. In fact, maybe this is perfect – maybe the stars have aligned to right here, right now, to put Tony in front of him because Tony will understand everything, and Steve can explain everything, like how he sees faces in the corner of his eyes and the sickness in his stomach when he wakes up in the morning.  
  
“Stark weapons,” he clarifies, “apparently, there was double-dealing going on for years.”  
  
“I don’t know anything about that,” Tony says, shortly.  
  
“And there was this set-up, they had kids and – other people, subordinates too, breaking down the weapons for components. Underground, in the dark, always. We didn’t know, we didn’t realise they had a whole operation. We got surprised. They decided, rather than let us find the evidence, they’d bury it under rubble. So I started to get the children out, or, I was going to. But then they triggered a bomb, and – they didn’t bury it. But they died. The kids, I mean. All the workers.”  
  
Tony is staring dumbly at the table. Steve’s hands are shaking, so he hides them, clenched in fists. He waits for Tony to say something, anything. If Tony told him that it was okay, and not his fault, he would feel like his heart wasn’t being flayed layer by layer, even if he wouldn’t necessarily believe it.  
  
After the long, long silence, Steve hears himself say, “I made the wrong judgement.”  
  
Tony looks up at him, lips pressed tight. “Why you telling me this, huh?” He croaks. “You trying to – what, make me feel like shit? As if I don’t know… who have you been talking to? Was it Fury? Pierce? What did they say? It wasn’t me, you know, it didn’t have anything to do with me.”  
  
Steve stares. “No, Tony,” he tries to explain, “I don’t mean – “  
  
“Because,” and Tony is turning quickly to cold fury, “I’m not fucking omniscient. I don’t know what every single person in my company is doing all the time. I tried to fix it, after I found out, I tried to blow up every single cache I found. If you want – if you want to punish me for that, fine,” Tony spits at him, “but it’s not my fault. It’s _not _my fault, I’m not doing this again, understand? I’ve – paid my dues – “  
  
“I wasn’t – Tony. I wasn’t saying it was your fault. I just meant…”  
  
What? What had he meant? He’d brought it up, hadn’t he? Maybe, on some level, he wanted to say, _they were Stark weapons, _because it alleviates some of that blame from his shoulders. Maybe, in a way, he was trying to say it was Tony’s fault.  
  
The thing is, Steve is not a good person. And the sooner people realise this, the better.  
  
“I just want to help,” he says numbly, but Tony is already pushing away from the table, leaving. He doesn’t say goodbye, and Steve’s hands are still shaking. He just wanted to help.  
  
He thought, maybe, if he could help Stark, Stark would help him. And then, neither of them would be so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another segment in the lives of salmon rogers and tuna stark
> 
> these chapters take awhile. I really should work on getting the next stress relief chapter out
> 
> i started a patreon for those of u who wanted more snippets/outtakes/old work/previews etc. there's more about it on my [tumblr](https://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> also, i hope it's obvious that tuna and salmon are leading two very distinct, separate lives, and neither really knows what's going on in the other. like, tony has has had a WEEK and steve doesn't see that, just like tony doesn't see how much steve is suffering, too


	4. Chapter 4

He’s waiting onboard the helicarrier for his transport when Clint finds him, irritation clear on his face. “Congratulations,” he’s saying, “he’s done it again.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to remember who ‘he’ is – the person he’s supposed to be responsible for. “What?”

Clint is flagging down the pilot responsible for their ride. “I’ll be taking this one,” he says, throwing his bag onto the ramp to be collected by some poor tech. “Yeah, idiot,” he continues, rounding on him. “Samson caught him after the debrief. They’ve taken him for testing.” Clint whistles. “You’ve put yourself in the shit, my friend.”

“What did he – I didn’t do anything,” Steve hears himself bluster, feel himself get that prickly, sticky feeling in his gut. Like he’s at school, and his good shoes were to small, so now he’s wearing his mom’s hand-me-downs but the nuns are walking down the line to make sure everyone is up to scratch –

That sort of sinking feeling, is what he means.

“Exactly,” Clint grimaces, “you haven’t done anything. So, if I were you, I’d go and sort it out before Samson has him enrolled.”

Which is how Steve ends up spending his Friday afternoon running through the corridors of the helicarrier.

Doctor Samson is sitting behind his computer screen, with another doctor in medical blues next to Tony, who is looking – slumped, head resting on his fist, legs stretched out in front of him. “Captain,” Samson smiles, in that reassuring way he has, “thank you for joining us on such short notice.”

Steve hitches his bag on his shoulder, shifts his weight on his feet. “What’s this about?” He asks.

The doctor next to Tony stands, offers Steve his seat. “We just thought we’d give Tony a chance to explain,” he says, hands in pockets, cheerful, “before we discuss it any further. Tony?” He prompts. “Do you want to tell the Captain the truth?”

Steve sits in the chair, heavily, and Tony just side-eyes him. Rolls his eyes. “Fuck me,” he mutters.

“Tony,” the doctor says again, sternly. “Really, this is only going to be harder for you the longer you wait.”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“I think you do,” Samson urges, gently, “and this is safe space, Tony. In fact, what we say today will not leave this room so long as you – “

“Jesus,” Tony scoffs, “what is this, an intervention?!”

Doctor Samson folds his hands, neatly. He’s a neat man. Nails clipped, hair pulled back in a grey bun, glasses frameless and austere. He can be calming, sometimes. Mostly, it just irritates him. “Doctor Grayson, if you explain.”

Doctor Grayson folds his arms. “Mr Stark came in for his check-up today, and I ran some pretty basic tests. He tested positive for THC, which means he has smoked cannabis in at least the last thirteen days.”

Steve turns to frown at him. Tony doesn’t say anything.

“Now – “ Grayson is continuing “ – I took the liberty of looking at his contract, and I’m pretty sure it states there that drug-use is non-negotiable. A hard line, am I right? What’s more, Mr Stark is on SHIELD’s payroll. He can’t be testing positive for these things, understand? It’s just not right. He’s operating heavy machinery.”

“I know,” Steve says, still frowning. Fucking hell, Stark, how hard can it be?! “I’m – incredibly aware of that fact, actually.”

Doctor Samson and Grayson share a look. “So you see,” Grayson continues, “this kind of behaviour… no one here wants this to go to tribunal, do we? That’s not in anyone’s best interest. If I was to believe that Mr Stark was going to leave here today, and that his behaviour was going to go unchecked… well then, I’d have no choice but to report it. And Mr Stark knows what that means, I’m sure.”

Tony rubs a hand over his face. “Three month suspension, minimum. Court-mandated subordinate rehabilitation.”

“Yes,” Grayson nods, “Mr Stark knows very well what that would mean. But considering the good work he does – Captain, if I could get some… assurance, that there would be a reprimand…”

“If I give him reprimand, I need to note it in his file. I’d need to give a reason.”

Grayson stares at him. “Of course,” he says, slowly. “Of course, those are the rules. But, in the interest of keeping Mr Stark _out _of state custody…”

Grayson is asking him to bend them. Hell, _Samson _is asking him to bend them, at the very least he’s complicit. How often does that happen? How often do people punish their subordinates and not note it down? Steve thinks about the long gaps between reprimands in Tony’s file. “I see,” Steve says, heavily. “Well, you have my word that it will be dealt with.”

“Really, Captain,” Grayson presses, “I can let it slide, this time – so long as I know you’re going to help him. But if this were to happen again…”

“I understand,” Steve says firmly, “and thank you, for your leniency.” He feels compelled to add, “I’ve only owned him for two weeks.”

Grayson nods, shuts his eyes. “Of course, of course. No one here would suggest this is your care. In fact – it’s the pervasive _lack _of care that led him here, I fear. Samson, who was his last superior?”

“Murray. We tend to give him the leeway cases.”

Grayson claps his hands, like that’s the explanation. “Well there you go,” he sighs, “say’s it all really, doesn’t it? Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“I’m not a fucking child,” Tony mutters, except he has his cuffs pulled over his fists and his arms are crossed and he’s slumped in his chair, chewing on his shirt collar.

“Captain, we just need to discuss some of Tony’s results,” Samson says, with a lingering, weary, glance at Tony. “Doctor Grayson, if you could show Tony the way out.”

“C’mon, son,” Grayson says cheerfully, patting Tony’s hair. He slaps him away, standing. He very purposefully knocks himself against Steve’s chair as he leaves.

Samson watches them til the door closes. And then he looks at Steve, and smiles that placid smile. “Interesting, that I finally get you in my office under these circumstances.”

“Sure,” Steve says, bluntly, not giving away anything.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I was never feeling bad.”

“Rumlow seemed to think otherwise.”

Well Rumlow’s a fucking snitch then, isn’t he? “I’m sure he did what he thought was best,” Steve answers, diplomatically.

“Hmm,” Samson agrees, flicking his fingers across his keyboard. The printer whirs into life. “You will have to punish him, you know.”

“I like to figure out the why’s before I take action.”

Samson’s lips twitch. “That’s very liberal of you,” he says. “Just as a word of advice – Mr Stark doesn’t need a liberal superior, Captain. He needs a firm hand. And no matter what he’s told you, he needs far more attention than one session a week.”

Steve watches him pick up the printed sheets, staple them neatly. “What makes you say that?” He asks, levelly. Did Tony tell him that’s how often they met?

“Here’s the thing,” Samson says, sliding the pages across the desk. “After he tested positive, Grayson called me in. You’ve read his file, I’m assuming?”

“Obviously.”

“So you know he has a tendency to self-medicate.”

“Lots of people do.”

Samson’s face falls. “You know, this is his health we’re talking about. I’m sure you could take it more seriously,” he says, sharply.

Steve sits up a little. “I _do _take it seriously. Jesus, Samson – so he smoked a joint, maybe two weeks ago. At most – that’s a couple ass-whips. What do you want me to say?”

“He doesn’t fear any consequence.”

“Good. I don’t want him to fear.”

“You’re not understanding,” Samson sighs, “of course not, why would you. Captain, forget the contract for a moment, Stark smoked cannabis – that we know of – within the last two weeks. And today, he was flying his suit, operating weapons that could level a mid-size town.”

Steve knows this. Steve is incredibly aware of this face. Steve wants to tie Tony to a post and beat his ass until its swollen purple, but what would that achieve? “I’ll talk to him,” he promises, “and there will be a punishment. Just – let me think about it, okay?”

Samson pushes the papers in front of him, insistently. “I had him fill this out while we were waiting for his results.”

Steve picks it up. A bunch of pie-charts and graphs. “What am I looking at?”

“Just a questionnaire he answered. I didn’t tell him what for. I took stress readings, too.” He turns the page for Steve, points at the deep red end of the scale. “Tell me you look at that and you think he’s healthy."

Steve looks. He folds the page back over, quickly. “Murray wasn’t hands-on,” is his only answer.

“This isn’t just a Murray problem.”

“It’s been _two weeks._”

“And what have you done in those two weeks, hmm? Implemented a good routine, maybe given him some rewards. He likes it, you know, even if he says he doesn’t. You can see it, here,” Samson points at a segment of a pie-chart, 45%. “He responds incredibly well to positive engagement. _Praise,”_ Samson adds, spelling it out plainly. “He wants someone to impress. Can you be that someone?”

“You know I was gone. You know I had work.”

“Exactly,” Samson says, pointedly. “You were gone. You weren’t there. And what’s the point in him trying to do better, or working to impress you, or be good, if you aren’t there to tell him that yourself?”

“I have work,” is all Steve can say.

“And he’s crying out for some structure. Punishment, too. Neither of you have to like it, Captain, it’s not to be enjoyed. It’s so he knows, on some level, his actions have consequences. You are far too fucking lenient.”

Steve raises his brows. He’s never heard Samson curse, not even on those days where Steve runs him round in circles giving the same answer again and again.

“Okay,” Steve says, slowly. “Okay, fine. Show me what I’m looking at.”

Samson clears his throat. He opens up the pages again. “From his blood test,” Samson says, suddenly forcibly calm, not looking Steve in the eyes. “I have his bloodwork going back ten years. He’s never been this stressed. Never.”

“Murray mentioned – since Killian. What happened at Malibu, and with the president.”

“I’m telling you this because you’re already privy to that information, but he’s been downhill since New York.”

Steve lowers his voice. “Is he, uh. Is it – trauma, or…”

“I’m not going to discuss what he tells me in our sessions. You need to ask him that yourself.”

“He doesn’t really… we’re not… he’s not forthcoming,” Steve decides on.

“If he doesn’t trust you, then you need to do better. He’s going to keep self-medicating unless you give him what he needs. Notice how I said, not what he wants, what he _needs_, Captain. This is non-negotiable,” he adds.

Steve feels stiff. He’s been trying. It’s not as easy as Samson makes it out to be – Tony is a _person, _his own person, and if he doesn’t want to talk Steve can’t make him. Can’t make him do anything, really.

Which, maybe, is the reason Samson has a point.

“I understand you work,” Samson continues, delicately, “and that it takes you away, sometimes for weeks at a time. I know Stark requested you, personally. I think, maybe you should be reconsidering how suited you two are together. If you’re both what’s best for each other.”

“I don’t follow,” Steve lies, blandly. His pulse is quickening in his throat.

“I mean,” Samson says, slightly more gentle, “that maybe you’re not positioned to be exactly what he needs. Understand? Stark needs – someone _there. _Who’s willing to be there. Who can maybe… lead with business, too. Offer him some structure. You can’t praise him, because you don’t even know what you’re praising him for. Doing well at work? You can’t notice, because it means nothing to you.”

“I can – we work together in other capacities,” Steve argues, because it’s the truth. “He did a good job today – “

“And did you tell him that?”

“Well I was called in here,” Steve answers, stiffly, “so how the hell was I supposed to find the time?”

Samson sets himself back, exhales slowly. Resets. Hands clasped, fingers steepled. He just watches Steve, for a time. And then: “You’re very stubborn, did you know that, Captain?”

“It’s come up,” Steve grunts.

“Mm. I’m thinking, why don’t we direct some of that stubborn energy towards the one person who could actually benefit from patience and – an unyielding temperament. What do we think?”

Steve dislikes being patronised. He doesn’t say anything.

“Quite,” Samson agrees, sorting through the papers on his desk. “I’m glad we could have this chat, Captain, it’s been enlightening. In the meantime, please do see to it that Stark is given some – _appropriate _discipline,” he urges, looking down his nose from over the top of his glasses. “It’s all in his file, you know. If you need help putting together a plan, I do couple’s – “

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Won’t it?” Samson asks him, so innocently. _He’s laughing at me, _Steve thinks. _He’s thinking, I can’t handle him. _

He stands, throws his bag back on his shoulder. “I said,” his knuckles are white, fisted hard around the strap, “that it won’t be necessary, Doctor.”

Tony’s stretched out on a line of metal chairs outside medical, tapping idly at his phone. Unbothered, for the most part, like he’s used to it.

He doesn’t even look up when Steve approaches, just holds out a finger in a _one moment _gesture, his thumb still rapidly texting. Steve feels himself seethe. He’s his Superior. He deserves a little fucking respect.

“Are you done?” He hears himself snapping after ten minutes of strained silence.

“Not quite,” Tony murmurs, frowning. He looks up at him, distracted. “What’s got your goat, huh?”

“You need to ask?”

Tony raises a brow. “What, back there?” He blows air, waves a hand. “That was nothing, Steven. They call me in like that – at least once every six months. They’re always looking for a reason to ground me.”

He goes back to his phone, and Steve feels himself snap. He grips it in his hand and tugs; snatches it right from Tony’s grasp. “Look at me when I talk to you,” he tells him, bluntly. He hopes he sounds as angry as he feels.

But Tony doesn’t look afraid, or even that bothered. “You didn’t tell me to look at you,” he replies, levelly. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“You shouldn’t have to be. It’s basic respect.”

“For you, maybe,” Tony says slyly, snatching his phone back and pocketing it smoothly. “I wasn’t born in 1920.”

“1918,” Steve corrects, irritated and unsure why.

“Right, whatever. Prehistoric times.” He’s eyeing Steve carefully. “What did Samson want?”

Does he really need to ask? Is it really a mystery? “When did you smoke,” Steve says instead, eyeing the two techs standing by a water cooler. They’re turned together, like they’re talking, but no noise is coming out of their mouths – they’re eavesdropping.

“I don’t know. When you were away, probably. Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Steve tells him, sharply, and grips his arm. “Get up."

Tony stumbles, only slightly. "Shit," he says, eyebrows raised, "you've got a bad case of the grumblies today, Captain."

He marches him down the hallway. "I don't know why I bother," he grits out. "It's a fucking disgusting habit, Tony."

Steve can't prove it, but he thinks people are watching them as they walk to the carrier.

"Who gave it to you," Steve asks him, when they're finally seated, in the air, and he's unable to get away.

“A friend," is his answer.

“What kind of friend?” A beat, then, “The same friend who leaves bruises under your eyes? The friend who leaves the marks on your neck?”

Tony looks away, mouth tight. “That’s my business,” he mutters, “you don’t have any say over my – romantic affairs. I can take you to court if you want, it’s in the contract, plain as day.”

Huh. So they’re there already, are they? Tony doesn’t beat around the bush. “You don’t need to take me to court,” Steve retorts, “I don’t care who you screw.”

“Sure,” Tony mutters, angling his body away from Steve’s, folding his collar up against his throat and his arms across his chest, “seems that way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How about you just sit pretty for a while, Captain. It’s only a short ride.”

Steve feels his eye twitch. _Sitting pretty, _it plays over in his head. How dare he. How _dare _he. “Do you know how stupid you made me look in there?”

“I didn’t – you’re not stupid,” he mutters, “you’re the most – you’re not stupid, no one in there thought you were stupid, they thought you – they thought _I _was stupid.”

“I don’t know why you hate what’s good for you.”

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t know you,” Tony tells him, like it’s that simple.

“I’ve tried to get to know you. Dinner, I tried.”

“Yeah, until – “ Tony is stiff, his voice hard. “If this is about Sudan, or about – making me take the blame – “

“Jesus, Tony, I wasn’t _blaming _you.”

“You said – “

“Because I thought you might understand! I thought _someone _might understand!”

A silence. “Understand what?” Tony asks him.

In that moment, all Steve can think is, _you are so fucking selfish. _Steve spent three days in an underground hellhole. He buried children. He had to wash their blood off his hands, and scrub them clean from his hair. And in the meantime, can he expect to come home to a friendly face, or even just someone who can just _talk _to him?

No, instead he comes home to his junkie subordinate, who throws a fucking radio at the wall because he hasn’t had enough attention. Because people were dying, while his subordinate sat in a clean, warm apartment, with just _one _simple task –

“Everything,” Steve snarls at him, hears himself snarl it, harsh and ugly. _Everything. _I want you to understand everything, Stark. I need this, don’t you understand? No one ever fucking talks about what I need.

Tony lowers his eyes, slightly. “Steve,” he says, tightly. He clears his throat. “I – I’m sorry if I haven’t been what you expected but – I don’t know you all that well, and I can’t – “

“I defended you in there,” Steve points, wildly. “I _defended _you. I told them I didn’t want to punish you, that you didn’t need it.”

“I – I didn’t ask you to defend me,” Tony tells him, staunchly. “I didn’t want you to, you didn’t have to. You can’t throw something in my face that I didn’t ask you to – “

“Stark. Stop talking.”

He does, briefly – one blessed moment of silence, where Steve thinks his command has been obeyed. “Are you going to punish me?” Tony asks, “Because if you are, I’d like to ask to be excused from the gala.”

“No,” Steve tells him, brusquely, “you’re going to gala. I’m going to punish you after.”

Tony shuts his eyes. “We don’t have to go,” he attempts, lamely, “we’re superheroes. Just tell them – I don’t know, that we’re riddled with the ghosts of our past. They’ll probably throw the damn thing in our honour.”

Steve watches him, carefully. “What are you so afraid of?” He asks, because Tony _is _afraid. Or at least, upset about it. “They’re expecting you there. You’re a guest of honour.”

“I’m not afraid,” Tony scoffs, and crosses his arms as he angles his entire body away. “It’s just – a lot of work, is all. You’re not the one who’s going to get beat on tonight.”

“I’m not going to beat you. And you should have thought about that, before you broke my rule.”

“Your rules,” Tony mutters, if only to get the last word in. He doesn’t speak, after that.

At 6PM, Steve is showered and dressed, waiting in the lobby. He checks his watch once, twice, three times.

Tony never shows.

He finds him at the back of a bar in Manhattan, all spread out on a leather-brown couch.

He doesn’t realise, at first. He sees the woman, of course, but those could be any man’s legs beneath her on the couch. The leather patent shoes, with the gold buckle.

Tony’s hands are tied loosely above his head with his tie. The woman has put her panties on his head as a makeshift blindfold. “Have you been a bad boy?” She asks him, drawing rouge around his mouth – delicately, is the word. Her thin fingers, red tipped nails, lightly pressing into the skin of his cheek.

“Uh huh,” Tony slurs.

She tsks. Shifts her weight, slightly, pulling up onto her knees. She cards her hand through his hair, stroking; and then, she’s tugging, twisting it, hard. Tony whimpers.

Steve’s never heard Tony made a sound like that, before.

“Naughty boy,” she’s saying, but it’s gentle, her free hand stroking his cheek. “You’ve been a naughty, bad boy, haven’t you, Stark? Oh but it’s okay, sweetheart.” She dips down, presses kisses along his jaw, “you know exactly how to make better, you’re always eager to please.”

Beneath the crush of the music and the swell of people at his back, he finds himself watching them. The places she touches to make Tony go loose, and the noises he makes when she does. He wonders what it would take to get Tony to make those sounds for him, willingly.

It probably doesn’t matter.

“He’s not yours,” Steve hears himself say.

The woman turns, eyes wide. “Shit,” she hisses, “you fucking – you get off on that, Captain? Watching people?!”

“He’s not yours,” Steve says again, calmly.

He hears Tony sigh, this exhausted, drawn out thing. Like Steve has done him a great disservice. Like it wasn’t Tony who took illegal drugs, brought it to work, missed out an a gala where his presence was counted on to raise funds. Like this is not now Steve’s fault, Steve’s problem, because he elected to be _used _by him, fucking pushover that he is.

This is going to come to a head, tonight, he can feel it.

“Oh dear,” Tony sniffs idly, rubbing at his nose. He pulls the panties off his head. He offers them to the woman, who has no qualms about pulling them on in front of Steve. “What a calamity, huh?"

“My subordinate,” Steve hears himself wheedling, “the great Tony Stark. Getting passed around in a bar with a pink thong on his head.”

“What,” he slurs, “you don’t think it’s my colour?”

Steve steps forward, feels himself twitching. “You were supposed to be there.”

“And what? You were going to punish me anyway,” he drawls, still lazily sprawled out, “I might as well try enjoy myself while I can.” Tony snorts. He’s under, more under than Steve has ever managed. He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, presses down one nostril and sniffs, hard.

It’s bleeding. He smears the blood along his upper lip, and it gets caught in his facial hair. “Hi, Steve,” he says, giggling. “Sorry – Sir. Hi, _Sir.”_

Steve doesn’t like the vacant look in Tony’s eyes, like he’s empty. It unsettles him. “Your nose is bleeding,” he points out.

Tony laughs again, and again. “Whoops,” he says, using the cuff of his shirt to dab it clear. “My fault, huh? Shouldn’t have… well. We all make mistakes, don’t we, Steve?”

Steve realises, belatedly, that he’s high. He’s taken something, snorted it, probably. To humiliate him? To show everyone how Steve has only owned him for a week, and already he can’t control him?

“What did you do,” he asks, bluntly.

Tony grins, vapid. “We all make mistakes, Steve,” he says again, head rolling back onto the couch.

“They could arrest you,” Steve continues, standing in front of him, looking down. “What have you done? Cocaine? I smell marijuana.”

Tony laughs, then, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “I – “ he gasps, unable to catch breath, “ – ‘_I smell marijuana,’”_ he mocks, face absurdly serious, voice low, before breaking back out into hysterical giggles.

He’s laughing at him. Obviously.

“You were reprimanded _today. _Six hours ago. What is _wrong _with you, Christ, do you know what’s at stake? What they might do to you?”

Tony shrugs, snorts. “I guess I’d already be on my way for re-education,” he says, and then sniffs again, batting his nose.

“That’s not funny. You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Oh, they’d assign me someone good, I bet,” Tony sneers at him, half-joking. “Maybe it’s what I deserve. You ever figured that, Rogers?”

“Yes,” Steve tells him, bluntly. He steps forward, into Tony’s space, so he has to push back into the couch to escape him.

Tony’s breathing is slow, his lips parted and eyes half-lidded. “You going to punish me now, Captain?” He hiccups. “It’s fine. I’m ready.”

_Ready for what?_ Steve thinks. And then Tony leans forward and licks his cheek, lascivious, and he forgets.

Jesus, he’s only human. If this was anyone else – he’d punch their lights out, and he wouldn’t feel bad about it, either.

“Get up,” he grunts instead, ripping his fingers in Tony’s shirt, smearing his saliva off of his cheek. “You filthy little fuck.”

“But I am,” Tony agrees, giggling as Steve drags him through the bar. Some people turn and watch; most don’t care. These places see subordinates punished on a rotation basis, and with his pale, sweat-soaked skin and damp hair, Tony just looks like another junkie.

“Don’t think – don’t think I don’t see,” he slurs, as Steve piles him into the back, slams the door. When he sits in the drivers seat, Tony is leaning forward, lips at his ear. “I know what you want really, Captain. How about – “ he hiccups “ – how about tonight, we skip the punishment. I’ll let you go to town – “

He hiccups again, and as Steve peels off the curb, falls back against the seat. “Put on your belt,” Steve orders, monotonously.

“Why? Maybe I like the risk, Steven.”

He finds himself turning on the radio, as if this can drown him out. But Tony takes to singing whatever station he lands on, so eventually he turns it off.

The streetlights cast him in orange.

“So,” Tony tries, after an extended silence, “how’d you find me?”

“You’re a creature of habit,” is all Steve divulges. At any other time, Steve would remind him about the dangers of having habits when you have his level of infamy.

“Ah,” Tony realises, “Murray. Drunk bastard,” he adds, muttering.

Steve watches him in the rear-view. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to talk,” he tells him, harshly. “And actually, he was very concerned.”

“I’m sure he pretended to be.” Tony heaves himself up, braces a hand on the back of Steve’s seat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He asks him, levelly.

“No,” Tony says confidently, and then pukes viciously onto the leather upholstery.

Amazing. Steve sets his jaw, ignores the groaning from the back for the remainder of the journey, even when the heating starts to cook the sick into the car.

He pulls into the shady, quiet car-lot under the tower and, for a while, just sits there, all parked up in the dark. Tony’s mostly quiet. His breathing sounds strained, and Steve has the beginnings of a headache in his temples. Him. A _headache. _That’s Tony’s impact.

He thinks, Tony is in no state to be punished. Not really. And that’s not him – being lenient, or too soft. It’s just good sense. He’d like some answers out of him – he’d like to sit him down, and just have him listen. And despite desperately wanting to throw him over his lap and smack the defiance out of him, he doesn’t think it will work.

He thinks Samson, Clint, and all the rest of them, are wrong. In all the time he’s spent trying to puzzle Tony out, he’s never been shown that violence or pain is a way to earn his respect. At worst, his fear, maybe. His forced acquiescence. But Steve doesn’t want that, he wants –

Fuck, he just wants trust. He wants someone to trust him, and to be trusted in return. It’s all he wants. Stupid, pathetic little man that he is: he just wants Tony to trust him. To miss him when he’s gone.

He’s still moaning pitifully in the back seat. Steve can’t tell if he’s still high or just having a bad come down – he doesn’t even know what he took. So he sighs, kneads the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says quietly, turning off the ignition. “C’mon, Tony. It’s time.”

He has to lever him out of the car like dead-weight, although he stands straight enough when Steve leaves him to his own devices. He suspects there’s a bit of showmanship at play – Tony reckons the sicker he acts, the weaker the punishment. Still, Steve has to wrap an arm around his waist to get him to the elevator, all of him stinking of sick and sweat and sharp, gag-inducing spirits. His hair is plastered to his head, he’s shivering slightly, and even Steve doesn’t think he can fake the way his pupils are expanded, his skin clammy and pale.

So he won’t hurt him, because as usual, Tony has inflicted far more pain on himself than Steve would ever be capable of.

He leads them to Steve’s room, where he at least knows there will be no stashed drugs, no alcohol, or escape routes. Here, he can watch him, and make sure he doesn’t swallow his tongue in the right. He also has some rope – he figures, he’ll do some light knots, make it so Tony doesn’t have to worry about holding up his limbs. Just make him feel nice and held, let him unwind when he slides the rope over his skin.

“You going to punish me?” Tony asks, all slurred, propping himself up against a wall. He smears blood from his nose against his cheek.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He pulls open the drawer. Selects the rope, rough thick twine. He closes the drawer with a soft thud.

“Get in the shower,” he says, softly. “Get that sick off you.”

He hears Tony’s back thump against the wall before he turns to look at him. He has his eyes shut, head tipped back. “I know, uh,” he croaks, rubbing his nose. His hands are shaking. “I know I’ve… not been good,” he sniffs, “and you are well within your rights to – do whatever you want, and I’d deserve it, but please don’t – “

Tony opens his eyes. He can see the moment Tony actively chooses to change his stance, lower his head, palms flat against the wall, shoulders stooped. “If I could just beg – a reprieve, one more time – “

“Reprieve denied,” Steve says, softly. “Just get in the shower.”

Tony flinches, a full-bodied thing. “I deserve it,” he agrees, nodding as Steve steps closer, “I really do, and – I haven’t been, uh,” he can see Tony searching for the right words, “appreciative, of your efforts. Or – or your leniency,” he adds, looking at Steve to see if the words have had an effect.

Steve winds the rope around his knuckles. “No more leniency,” he tells him. “This will be good for you, I promise. And I won’t ask again.”

Tony’s chest is rising and falling, expanding and contracting, his breath huffed. He pushes himself off the wall. “I won’t do it again,” he promises, “I won’t take anything, and – I’ll do everything you ask. _Everything. _I swear.”

“You’re trying to bargain,” Steve notes.

Tony shakes his head. “Not,” he says, on an exhale. “I’m just – Steve,” he tries, plaintively. And then, lower. “I can be good for you.”

“I want you to be good for me,” Steve agrees.

Tony looks up at him. He lowers his hand, slowly, carefully. Presses his palm against Steve’s groin. “Captain,” he says, “you can do anything to me – “

Steve grips his wrist, twists it away, and Tony startles. No. Not _that. _How could he even think – _that? _“You think I want that, Stark? That I bought you, to treat you like a whore?”

“You said – you wanted me to be good for you,” Tony tries to explain, “I only meant – I thought – “

Steve releases him. He skitters back, thumping against the wall again. “Please,” he tries, voice plaintive, now. “Not the shower. You can do anything else, I swear. You can do anything, I mean, _anything. _Please, Captain. Steve. Sir.”

Shakily, he starts climbing down onto his knees. Jesus, Steve thinks, he’s actually going to beg me.

“Get up,” Steve says roughly, gripping his arm and pulling him straight, “you’re embarrassing yourself.” He can’t understand this, won’t. He’s trying to be nice. He’s trying to be kind. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he doesn’t understand why Tony is pushing him like he wants to be punished.

He flinches back into the wall. Takes a moment, eyes shut, slowing his breathing. He swallows. He flicks his gaze to the rope in Steve’s hand.

“Please don’t tie me,” he asks, stiffly. “I’ll stay put, just – just don’t tie me.”

Steve looks at the ropes in his hands. “I thought it would be good for you,” he says, shortly, “that it would relax you. You told me you liked rope. But now, I’m starting to question whether you deserve it.”

“It’s your choice, Sir,” Tony tells him, croaky. “If you tie me, sometimes I get sick on myself. I’ll try not to.”

Steve recoils, slightly. “What?” He asks, “That’s not in your file. Why do you get sick?”

“If I know I’m able to leave, it helps. When you tie me, it means – I get panicked. More panicked,” he adds, like what he’s saying makes sense. “The water. If I can’t – it makes me think I can’t breathe.”

Steve tips his head. “Tony,” he asks, slowly, “why would I tie you in the shower?”

“To punish me,” Tony answers, breathlessly.

There’s something wrong, here. Steve has stumbled onto something sick, and wrong. “You’re afraid of water,” he realises.

Tony shakes his head. “Showers,” he corrects, automatically, because even like this he can’t help himself. “I thought… you knew.”

“It’s not in your file,” Steve says, with this awful, slow, dawning horror. “You’ve never said. Why would I know? No one’s ever told me, how – Jesus. Tony, I wanted you to _shower. _I wanted you to be clean, and comfortable, not – how could you even think – no,” he stops himself, because what is he going to do, lambast Tony like it’s his fault?

“You don’t want me to – you mean, I don’t have to – “

Steve holds up the rope, helplessly. “I thought maybe I’d tie you up. Let you put all your weight on the ropes, unwind a little.”

Tony stares at him. “Oh,” he says, and then laughs uneasily. “Well shit.”

Gently, so gently, because suddenly Tony feels more like a spooked animal than the antagonistic, wheedling subordinate he’d thought he was dealing with, he takes Tony’s hand. “Look at you,” he says, quietly, “you’re shaking."

Tony’s fingers are cold. He works his thumb against his palm, massages blood back into the muscle. “Come down,” Tony croaks. His eyes are half-shut. But then he’s pulling away his hand again, defiant.

“And you’re dropping,” Steve tells him, taking back his hand. This time, Tony doesn’t pull away.

“Do I still need to shower?” Tony asks, eyes shut.

Steve has no idea if Tony is even thinking straight – his eyes are all glassy, unfocused. He’s sweat through his dress-shirt, ugly dark patches under his arms. Jesus. He thought Steve was going to – what, waterboard him? How could he think that, how could he ever think that?

“No,” Steve says quietly. He folds each of Tony’s fingers, delicately. Curls his hand into a fist, then covers it with his own. “I want you to put something comfy on. There are some sweatshirts in the closet. In the bathroom, under the sink, in the basket, there are dry cloths. I want you to run the warm water, use a little soap, and wash off your face, and anywhere else you think might need cleaning. Okay, Tony?”

And Tony looks at him, all round eyes and trembling limbs. Pale, and sweating like he has a fever. “Yeah, okay,” he nods, distantly, “yeah. That’s good. That’ll be good.”

In silence, Steve takes out a sweatshirt, gives it to him. While he listens to the sound of the water running, the soft ‘thump’ of the door under the sink, he strips back the sheets, brings in some bottled water and crackers from the kitchen. He throws the useless pillows on the floor. He sits on the side of the bed, and threads rope through his hands.

Tony stands in the doorway. His face is slightly red with the roughness of his scrubbing. Steve’s sweat-shirt falls to mid-thigh. He’s tucked his fingers into the cuffs, and folded his arms. He’s still wearing socks.

He clears his throat.

Steve tracks his eyes, to the rope in his hands. “I won’t,” he says, softly, aware that he’s been nervously twisting it around his knuckles. He lets it slide to the floor, in a smooth coil.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tony croaks. “We don’t have to – you don’t have to stay. In fact, I can just go back to my place. I don’t want to – to be a burden. I’ve already fucked up enough today, huh? And, uh. Jarvis will make sure I don’t choke on my sick – “

For some reason, Steve is thinking about Tony, spread out on a couch, blindfolded by another woman’s panties. Head tipped back, and breathing level.

“C’mere,” Steve says tiredly. He pats the bed, next to him. “Sit.”

Tony just watches him warily.

“I’m not gonna bite your head off,” Steve tells him, tiredly. “It’s fine. I’m done with all that, now.”

He wonders if Tony moves towards him out of trust, or an ingrained fear. He’s feels like a fucking idiot, for not seeing it before. Or for not wanting to see it. For just taking what people said about him at face value, imbibing it. Steve thinks – he had wanted to believe it, maybe. That Stark was just – what? Difficult, or selfish. Spoilt, maybe. It was easier to believe those things. It made him feel -

Righteous.

But he can slot things into place, now. It’s like another piece of a puzzle: the self-medication, the need for touch, his fear that Steve will prove unstable. _He’s given me everything, _Steve thinks, head in his hands. _He chose me, to trust with everything._

“You know,” Tony is saying, voice defiant, a little croaky, “this isn’t – this isn’t a one-way street.”

Steve turns his head, watches him settle himself on the end of the bed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I _mean,”_ he stresses, bunching his hands in his lap, “that – I’m not that fucked up, comparatively. You’re fucked up. And the worst part is, you don’t even acknowledge it. Or, like, you’re not even aware of it,” he adds, with just one side-glance, like he’s testing Steve’s reactions.

Steve considers. “How am I fucked up, Tony?” He asks levelly.

“Sometimes you look at people like you’re not seeing them. You think that the world is your burden. You think everything falls on your shoulders. You take failure too hard. You – invent narratives,” Tony tells him flatly, “and get upset when they don’t come to fruition. You can pretend it’s not true, it’s fine. I’m very perceptive.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “you are.”

“And it’s alright, I’m willing to say the word PTSD. I’m not even embarrassed about it anymore, even though I hate this city, and sometimes I – feel sick, looking at the sky.” He scuffs his foot against the carpet, sighs. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. Because it’s obvious to me that you’re hurting, but no one else seems to notice, or care.”

Steve frowns. Is that true? It might be, true. “We all hurt, Tony.”

“You’re my responsibility. Somewhat,” he hastily tacks on, “you’re somewhat my responsibility. We… signed the contract. Or, I signed it. I knew then what I was agreeing to.”

“Did you?”

Tony considers. “Maybe I didn’t realise you had – all the baggage. I just thought you’d be a safe pair of hands.”

“And have I been?” Steve asks, voice weaker than he wants it to be. “Have I been good for you?”

Tony turns his head, looks at him, full on. Steve thinks, he looks like shit. He’s lost so much weight. His cheeks are so gaunt, his hair too long. “You’re not as – experienced as I thought you’d be.”

Steve takes that to heart, can’t help it. It feels like a gut punch. _I just want to help you, _he thinks, desperately. It’s ingrained in him, more than most superiors, and yet…

“I’m sorry,” he tells Tony, softly. “I’m not what you need.”

“I didn’t say that.” Tony’s voice is soft, consoling. But Steve knows the truth. “It’s my fault, too. I – knew you weren’t old, it’s not like I thought you’d have the life experience. I guess I just thought… I bought into the myth, you know?”

“The myth?”

“Of you. Like you’re not a person, who fucks up. You’re supposed to be perfect. There was a part of me that thought you’d be perfectly kind and smart and know exactly what I needed, all the time, like a fucking mind-reader.” Tony snorts, lightly. “I don’t know. I can be – naive sometimes. It’s not like you were ever going to be Obie.”

“Sometimes I feel like that,” Steve blurts. “I expect you to just – know what I’m thinking. And I get upset when you don’t.”

A brief silence. “Maybe we’re just – not suited to each other,” Tony admits, and looks down.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, desolate. “Maybe.”

And they sit there for a while, in the low-light.

“But I want to change,” Tony admits, brutally. “I want to change, Steve.”

“Change?” He asks, softly. He shifts back, just a little; and now, their legs are touching.

“I want to be better again. These past – what, five years? I know I’ve been sliding. But I lost someone close to me – Him. And then I was dying for a bit. And as soon as I wasn’t dying,” Tony heaves a sigh, “I had this tower. And then – well you know the rest,” he trails off.

Steve can feel it building, and he wants to be sick. This isn’t his time. This isn’t his time to – lay everything on Tony.

“Sometimes I don’t feel real,” he blurts, “and it’s like… everything I do, what I am. People don’t see me. They see the myth. And – “ _I’m so lonely _“ – I guess I feel like people don’t know me, not really. So it gets – it’s hard.”

“Oh,” Tony says, softly, and Steve feels like a heel for even mentioning it. He buries his head in his hands. “Oh, no,” Tony continues, gently. He’s gripping Steve’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I understand. I get it, really, I do. I’m sorry, Steve, if I – had those expectations.”

“It’s just, it helps,” he tells him, roughly, “because I feel like there’s someone who needs me. Or that there’s someone who likes me. Not that you – “ _like me, _he was going to add.

“I like you,” Tony says, voice stiff. “I like you most times. I liked you enough before.”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Steve exhales, rubbing at his face. “You’re ten years older than me. Of course you need a different kind of – this isn’t how it should be. You shouldn’t be sitting here, comforting me, and I shouldn’t – “ he looks up, abruptly. “There’s so much I don’t know about you, Tony. And it makes this hard. It makes it really hard. I don’t know what you like, I don’t know what to avoid. I keep tripping up. I set you tasks you can’t, or won’t, follow. You need more than I can give. And it’s not even because I can’t give it, it’s because you won’t let me.”

He can’t keep the frustration out of his voice. Tony must hear it, because he takes back his hand, rubs at his nose. “If I give an inch,” he says. _You’ll take a mile, _goes unspoken.

“You don’t respect me,” Steve says bluntly, “I know you don’t. It’s why you chose me, you thought I’d let you do whatever you wanted.”

“I respect you,” Tony lies. It’s an obvious lie.

“You disobey me. Always.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “I do.”

“Why.”

“I guess – I don’t fear – “ Tony frowns, twists away. “I don’t know. I don’t fear you, but I guess I shouldn’t have to, for this work.”

“You don’t want to listen to me,” Steve hears himself say, bitter. “You don’t value my input.”

He hears Tony sighs, a strained, short thing. “Okay, Steve, fine. That’s it. I don’t value your input, it’s true. I’m sorry, it’s not all your fault – it’s not like I can expect you to know everything about me from the shit I put down in my file. But you’re barely here. And when you are – you don’t take an interest. It’s fucking bizarre, when you consider that – I’m _Tony Stark. _You’d figure, there has to be at least some things about me you’d give a fuck about.”

“Like what?” Steve asks, pathetically.

Tony seems annoyed that he has to spell it out. “Every Friday,” he says, “from the day I signed my contract, to the day he died, Obie would ask me to run down everything I’d worked on that week. And if it was good work, I was – “ he lets the silence imply the rest, “and if it was bad…”

“I’m not an engineer.”

“You don’t have to be,” Tony snaps at him, irritated. “I shouldn’t have to spell these things out, either.”

“You’re not honest with me,” Steve says, half-exasperated. “I can’t construct anything meaningful out of the bullshit in your file. What happened tonight – “ and he feels Tony flinch “ – shouldn’t happen, ever. And one day, it’ll happen again, except it won’t end nicely. You’ll get hurt.” _Have already been hurt, _he doesn’t add.

“I know.”

“Do you? Really?”

A beat. “If I put those weaknesses on paper, there’s no stopping the line of people who would abuse them,” he tells Steve, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Then don’t put it in your file. Just tell me.”

Tony is silent. “I can’t,” he says, after a time.

“Why not?” Steve nears begs him.

“Because. It would mean – having to explain. Or having to tell you…”

He trails off.

Steve thinks, he needs to push now, while he can. “Who ties up and leaves you under the shower, Tony?” He asks, frank, but gentle, too.

Tony shakes his head.

“Is it your friend? The one who leaves bruises?”

Tony doesn’t say anything at all. He is stone. He rubs at his face with his sleeve.

So they sit there, for a long while. Tony is so wrapped up in his own thoughts, eyes staring blankly at a patch of carpet, foot twitching against the grain. And Steve is sorry, he’s sorry he mentioned it, he’s sorry for all of it. He’s sorry he can’t be better.

He wants to be better.

Slowly – so slowly, as to telegraph his movements – he slides his hand along Tony’s back. He feels stiffen but stay so perfectly still; fear, he thinks.

He covers Tony’s shoulders with his arm, lightly. He gives him the space to throw him off, if he wants. But he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, stroking his arm with his thumb. “That these things have happened to you, and that I haven’t been what you need. I would like you to give me a second chance. But only if you’ll let me.”

Tony turns his head, stares at Steve directly. He’s searching his face. For what?

Steve lets his arm rest heavy around his shoulders. “Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

Tony shakes his head.

“I want to hear you say it,” Steve prompts him, gently. He needs to hear him say it: it’s more than consent, it’s acknowledgement. _You can put your arm there. I will allow you to do these things to me._

“I don’t want you to stop,” Tony says, sounding ragged. “I like it. I like being touched. No one – touches me. Not anymore.”

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks him. “Are you still sick? Use your words.”

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I feel like – snorted coke off someone’s thigh and washed it down with Smirnoff.”

“So about right, then.”

Tony’s lips twitch. “About right.”

“I’m going to help you, Tony,” Steve promises him. “I mean it. I’m going to help you. I going to help you change, if that’s what you want.”

He pulls his hand to settle on the back of Tony’s neck. “It’s what I want,” he hears him murmur, going limp beneath his hand, head tipped back.

“You mean that, Tony? Do you understand what you mean?”

And he turns his head loosely to the side, meets his eyes. His face is drawn, pale. Eyes rimmed red. He sighs. He says: “It’s what I want. Steven.”


End file.
